


my blue moon

by roslindie



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baker!Simon, Blue Neighborhood, Blue Neighborhood AU, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Suburbia, Violinist!Baz, boatload of angst, hopefully i can finish, might try my hand at smut, simon and baz grow up together, troye sivan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 37,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6638641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roslindie/pseuds/roslindie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon Snow and Baz Pitch grow up together in Watford, a suburb in Australia, best friends, they swear, for forever. But there's the issue of taking that first step to becoming something more, the issue that Baz is tormented by this place, the biggest issue of David Snow. Includes violinist!Baz and baker!Simon, this fic basically follows the storyline of Troye Sivan's album Blue Neighbourhood (or what I imagine it to be) with some tweaks and twists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. on the way home

**Author's Note:**

> whew. okay. so this is the first fic that i'm really set on finishing, how ever long it manages to be. i've got a semi-decent plot, got my moments, so here we go. thank you all so much for being here and reading like you can't begin to understand how much happiness and motivation that gives me. for your sakes and mine, i'll try my best to do this story some justice, as much as i can. i hope you all like it,  
> -rosie  
> oh this is the most important bit-  
> i've tried to be clever with making the chapter titles correspond with songs from blue neighbourhood, so you should be listening to that particular song when you read that particular chapter. i tried.

  
_**[ Trying hard not to fall**_  
_**On the way home**_  
_**You were trying to wear me down, down**_  
_**Kissing up on fence**_  
_**And up on walls**_  
_**On the way home**_  
_**I guess it's all working out, now ]  
**_

 

“Simon, these are the Pitches. They just moved in down the street yesterday. Say hi, love.”

His mother’s hand is warm on his small shoulder, gently pushing him forward. Simon couldn’t be less interested. He stares down at his shoe laces, at the red rubber ball in his left hand. It’s new. A gift from the lady next door. She’s always liked him. She hands him toffees sometimes; slips them into his pockets at church so he has to try and not crinkle the wrappings, slip the tiny sweets out without making a sound. She bakes him cherry scones with lemon frosting that he licks off his sticky fingers in huge gobs, strawberry cakes with silvery edging, tall muffins of apple and poppy seed and chocolate.

There are tall people in front of him now, though they are regretfully not muffins. Just people with each a head of the darkest black hair Simon’s ever seen. They’re holding hands, looming over him. They talk to his parents, words he doesn’t care enough to listen to. He’s more interested in his ball.

He bounces it on the pavement. Once. Twice. They continue talking. The sun beats down hotly on Simon’s shoulders and he’s vaguely aware that he’s not put on any sunscreen.

Three, four, five.

A hand clamps down on his wrist as his father gives him a look. _Too loud_ , it says, _sorry Simon._ A second, smaller hand ruffles his hair, and he looks up, annoyed, brushing the tickly curls out of his eyes. His mother smiles, promising silently that they’ll only be a few more minutes.

Simon’s frown only solidifies. He doesn’t know if he can last a few more minutes. He crosses his arms, trying to keep his hand from starting to bounce the ball again. Tries to listen to the adults. He hears his mother laugh and sees his father smile good-naturedly.

“Yours too?”

“We quite liked the school when we took a look at it.”

“Hopefully they’ll be in the same class.”

“Friends”

“How old is he?”

“Oh, our Simon too.”

“What a coincidence”

“It’ll be nice for him to have a boy his age.”

The two other adults turn to look behind them, drawing out a smaller figure with their arms.

A boy is presented in front of Simon.

Taller, thinner, paler.

A shock of dark hair.

Silver gray eyes like the edging on a strawberry cake.

The boy crosses his arms. Scowls.

His stare is hard to stand. Simon looks down at the red ball clenched in his fist. A hand enters his vision. Pale, slender, nimble.

“Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch” the boy says.

“What?” Simon says.

The boy looks unimpressed.

“My name,” he continues.

“What?”

Simon watches the boy’s lip curl upwards. Watches his slim hand reach for the red between Simon’s fingers. Simon lets him take it. He doesn’t know why.

“Go long,” the boy says.

Simon just stands, a bit stunned. Eventually he backs up. The boy throws so perfectly that Simon can’t help but stare. Maybe it would be worth it to let this boy teach him how to throw like that.

Simon fires the ball back and the pale boy catches it. Effortlessly.

Simon smiles. The boy just looks back, passing the ball from hand to hand.

“Nice toy,” he says, voice cool and smooth like lemon frosting.

“Thanks,” Simon says, “where did you learn to throw like that?”

The boy fixes a stare on his hand, tilting his head slightly in dismissal.

“It’s my bow arm.”

“What?” Simon says. It seems to be the only thing he can say.

This boy is not like the other ones. He’s got a face that’s a mystery, wearing a jacket that looks like it must be designer, that air of otherness about him.

“Violin,” the boy says simply.

Simon nods, half shrugging and pretending like that made a shred of sense to him.

The parents seem to be done talking. The boy hands back the rubber ball. His hands are cold, but soft.

“I’ll see you around?” Simon asks, and he means it.

“Sure,” says the boy, like he couldn’t be more uninterested.

“I’m Simon Snow,” Simon continues, “I live right here.” He points to the house behind him.

“I had noticed,” the boy says, glancing to meet Simon’s eyes.

“And who are you?” Simon asks, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“Baz,” the boy says, “you may call me Baz.”

A smile creeps up onto his pale pink lips like Simon’s told him a joke. Simon watches it, watches its peculiarity. Like the expression is dusty and rarely used on his features.

He ought to use it more often.

 

The next day, Baz visits.

He smiles when Simon answers the door.

“Hi,” Simon says. He’s skitterish and there’s a weird feeling in his legs, but he doesn’t know why.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go to the park. Throw the ball around.” He shrugs elegantly, looking away.

“What?” Simon’s brain doesn’t seem to register that.

“Would you like to play catch with me, right now?”

“I-"

Baz looks bored, standing on the step, hair being swept with the wind.

“It’s a bit of a bad day for it but I think we’ll manage.”

“I-”

“I don’t have all day, mind you.” He shifts his posture, so Simon can see his smirk.

Something in Simon’s brain clicks and regains control of his mouth.

“I- sure. Let me just, um, grab the ball.”

For a second Simon’s afraid that his legs aren’t working, but eventually they unfreeze to let him dash back into the house. The weird feeling has spread to his chest and the tips of his fingers. He has no idea what it is.

It’s got to be the fault of the different boy standing on his front steps, asking him outside.

He shuffles around his room in the old house, eyes searching for red and round and bouncy. The jumpiness inside him slightly subsides when he wraps his fingers around its rubber.

Baz is occupying himself by fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket when Simon reappears at the door. Simon can feel his cheeks burning, thinking that it must be from all the running around. The sweltering heat outside does nothing to help either.

Baz says nothing. Just starts to walk away, somehow knowing that Simon will follow.

They reach a park, one that Simon’s been to multiple times. He wonders how Baz found it, being new to the neighborhood and all. Simon barely remembers the way, even though he’s lived here all his life.

Baz stops at the edge of the grass, gesturing to Simon to walk along farther.

He waits and he’s staring when Simon turns back around.

Simon stands still, ball in hand, watching the sun hit this different boy.

“Throw it.” Baz says, clearly impatient.

Right.

Simon reacts quickly, snapping into focus and flinging the ball to the other boy.

It’s the worst throw he’s ever managed.

Baz quirks an eyebrow and something inside Simon withers.

He returns the ball, gracefully. Arm swinging fluidly at the precise angle.

“Try again.” He says to Simon.

Simon throws, and it’s equally as bad. Better. But nothing compared to the dark haired boy across the field from him.

This is why he’ll never make the team.

Baz is staring at Simon, the ball back in his hand.

Then he’s walking.

Shoulders straight and chin high, strides long and elegant, even for a child.

In a minute, he’s back beside Simon.

“Here.” He says, “you need help.”

Simon feels everything in him gently freeze again, as Baz pushes the rubber into his hands, fixing the position of his fingers.

“It’s all in the elbow.”

The tips of their fingers are touching, then wrists, forearms, elbows, shoulders.

Baz draws back their arms, still pressed together, experimentally going through a stroke. It feels different.

It might be the different angles, or the better set of his posture, but something feels right. It could be the shoulder pressed to Simon’s, the pair of t-shirts in the hot weather. That he might actually have a friend in all of this. To help him make the team.

Baz lets go and gestures at Simon to try it.

He lets his arm go, and finds that it works.

Perfect arc. A bullet.

He turns to look at Baz, he’s not sure why.

But he catches the smile on the dark boy’s lips and it spreads to his own.

And Simon thinks that this might just work.

Throwing lessons in exchange for smiles.

So begins their friendship.

 

* * *

 

 

Their friendship is sun and smiles and shoves.

It’s throwing, catching, teaching, teasing; walking home with the slowly setting sun.

It’s melting ice creams in sweaty hands, scones and wild strawberries from the fields.

It’s winning shots and losing shots, games of catch on the bus, on the docks, on the sand with burning toes; in the mornings when Simon’s half asleep and underneath the stars when it’s long past midnight.

Simon tries to get Baz to join the school team, but he always refuses.

Their friendship is playing; pushing each other up against walls, fences while the light’s fading. It’s a secret spot, that’s just theirs. Tossing a red rubber ball, they’ll share dreams, the things that matter most- the answers to the math homework that Simon forgot to do, the bad days, the good ones.

They’re young and wild and free. They’re hearts of gold and tongues of silver. They’re inseparable.

Baz always wins at football and Simon always manages victory at their scone eating contest. Baz plays violin, and Simon listens, the only time he sits still.

Summers are spent with lots of lemonade; wrapped up in beach towels, black and copper hair covered in sand. Splashing, sleeping under wide open sky, forgetting the time. They build a raft and set sail for somewhere wonderful.

When the rain comes, they face it together. The pain and sorrow and grief. It’s the only time Simon has ever seen Baz cry. The funerals are gray like Baz’s eyes and they wonder how they managed this.

Managed to lose both their mothers in under two years.

Yet they still laugh. Despite the sad in their hearts, despite the bruises that begin appear on Simon’s shoulders, his back; that Baz has to pretend he doesn’t notice.

 

“Trust me.”

“Why would I ever be so foolish?” Baz mutters, rubbing his arms.

“Just do it!” Simon’s laughing, and the sound is so pleasant that Baz can almost forget that he’s practically shaking, standing on the dock in the middle of the night, wearing practically nothing in the middle of winter.

“Are you mad? We’ll freeze, Snow.” Baz’s lip quirks at the unintended joke.

“I will if you will.”

Baz can tell that Simon’s grinning by the moonlight glinting off his teeth. Baz glares at him and shakes his head.

“A pitch never enters a situation where his dignity could be compromised.”

Baz crosses his arms, so Simon crosses his.

“Oh c’mon, Baz. What are you even sputtering about?”

Baz takes a step back from the edge, bumping Simon who bumps him back.

“Snow, I really don’t think-”

“Just jump!”

Simon’s laugh rings out as there are hands on Baz’s back, warm ones, and he falls forward into the icy depths. Another splash follows his own and once again he’s drenched. Baz holds up a choice finger, a not very polite one as Simon pops his head up beside him. Curls plastered to his forehead, panting, Simon’s still grinning.

“I thought you were against crude gestures.” He smirks and Baz scowls, shivering.

“Only when they don’t benefit me! What the fuck were you thinking? It’s bloody freezing in here.” Baz glares at him.

“I can’t believe you’re admitting it,” Simon says, teeth chattering, “usually you show no weaknesses.”

Simon watches as Baz’s glare deepens and feels a sense of satisfaction.

Simon’s chest is bare, so Baz can see the normally hidden garden of purple and blue bruises blooming on his abdomen and below his collarbone. He doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, it’s cold.” Simon agrees, after a minute.

Baz splashes him again and Simon’s hands fly upwards to straighten out his hair.

“Hey!”

“That’s for being an idiot.”

Simon shoves water back before pushing him under, swimming closer to put his hands on Baz’s shoulders. Somehow they’re still warm when they touch Baz’s skin. Baz shivers but it’s not from the cold.

And they thrash around in the waves, seeing who can hold their breath the longest, swim the fastest, forgetting for a moment that their lungs are not gills and their limbs are not fins.

Later when the light has returned and the stores are open, they share ice creams- Baz gets cookies and cream and Simon gets strawberry, switching every two minutes because Simon can never make up his mind.

Simon’s cone is leaking out of the bottom, and Baz is restraining his laugh as he tries not to get it everywhere. He can’t seem to think of anything else. Not his parents, not the kids at school who threaten him, not anyone else. Just Simon.

Simon takes up everything.

And Baz can wonder, how could this ever end? Their friendship is such a real and concrete thing, something that he keeps so close to his guarded heart, how could it ever cease to exist?

Sure there are fights, petty squabbles over opinions, and food, and hurt feelings. But Baz could never imagine life without Simon there. He could never imagine leaving him, never imagine Simon leaving him.

It just wasn’t how this worked.

They would always be there for each other, and that was a truth as good as any. Sworn over ice teas, crossed hearts and secret forts.

They’d both lost their mothers, and different aunts, cousins and friends.

Simon was losing the war with his father.

Baz was losing the war with everyone else in this neighborhood.

But they would never, ever, be alone.


	2. too long to the weekend

 

 _ **[ 'Cause there's still too long to the weekend** _  
_**Too long till I drown in your hands** _  
_**Too long since I've been a fool, oh ]** _

 

The pitch and the snap of a bat, the scrabbling on the dirt and dust, as Baz can feel his heart stutter stop in his chest. Simon’s running, and every one of Baz’s thoughts is pushing him on. Urging him forward.

Of course, the game is not worth much. The school team, no big honor.

But Baz has seen how much it means to Simon.

He follows all the professional leagues religiously, constantly correcting Baz on stats and players names and game times. He’s not the best on the team, anyone could see that, but he’s good. The years of throwing with Baz have drastically improved his arm, though Baz isn’t one to rub it in.

Well, _sometimes._

The stands of gray ridged metal are hot with the searing sun, rattling whenever one member of the crowd even shifts an inch. Simon’s almost home as the ball is set a flight again, Baz’s heart set again into a frenzy as he watches the final mad dash.

Simon slides into the plate, bronze curls whirling after him and the point is called. Baz can feel his energy from where he sits, excited and jumpy. He’s walking back to the bench with his a thousand watt smile, looking toward the spectators.

He catches Baz’s eyes and sends over a thumbs up. Something inside Baz’s chest spasms. Baz allows himself to smile back.

The rest of the game goes fairly well, and the team wins by a suitable amount. Everyone’s parading back to the parking lot after, hands around uniformed shoulders, climbing into identical sleek vehicles that glide away from the pitch soundlessly. Baz looks for Simon, and it’s not hard to find him.

He’s surrounded by a group, mostly kids their age, a few parents and siblings, just talking.

He’s gotten better with the talking, Baz has to hand him that. It used to be hesitant and few worded, but now Simon’s got no problems. He’s made friends in every activity he joins, sometimes the center of it all. Baz hates himself for wishing it any differently. Wishing it was back to just the two of them, where Simon would only talk to _him_ , only be at ease with _him_.

The group slowly dissipates and then it’s just Simon and his father. Simon immediately spots Baz and makes a beeline for him, which makes Baz feel slightly more okay about the situation. He would rather it have just been Simon, but unfortunately Simon’s father is coming over to.

Simon’s completely unaware, bouncing over like he’s on cloud nine, blue eyes high on victory and adrenaline. But Baz knows that David Snow doesn’t like him.

It’s not like he’s ever done anything to offend the guy.

Besides being Simon’s best friend.

Besides being different.

That would do it.

“Great game, wasn’t it?” Simon’s saying, but Baz is more focused on the larger shape looming at his friend’s side. Making sure he isn’t standing too close, adjusting his posture.

“It was a good one.” His father replies, not bothering that the question wasn’t meant for him. “I always knew you’d turn out to be a great player, son.”

He claps Simon on the back. Baz winces.

Because he knows.

 _Because he fucking knows_.

He’s seen the bruises, he’s read the signs for years. And it’s not okay. But what can he do? David Snow is one of the most powerful men in the community, he has the power to ruin everything.

_**Faggot** _

_**Loser** _

_**Piece of shit** _

There is nothing Baz can do.

The happiness in Simon’s eyes is genuine, but it’s so temporary. Baz wonders if Simon even enjoys baseball, or if just another thing that he pretends to like. He works so hard to be good at it, but for what goal? His happiness or his father’s pride?

He can’t tell.

How is he supposed to tell?

“Did you see the one slide I made?” Simon’s asking again.

Baz shrugs, because he has to. David Snow is standing in front of him, and of course he’s intimidated, and of course he’s not going to agree to anything because anything could be used against him.

Simon’s so out of it that he doesn’t even notice Baz’s indifference.

“Hey dad, can we go for sundaes?”

His hands are clasped together, but he’s hunching slightly away from his father and Baz wonders if it’s subconscious.

“Not today, Simon. Maybe another time. I’ve got to get back to the office.”

“Oh okay.”

Baz watches Simon’s form wilt. David Snow’s hand comes across Simon’s shoulders again and Baz sees the twitch of Simon’s mouth, the only giveaway.

“You played well today though, we’ll go out for ice cream soon.”

Baz sees how the praise infects Simon like electricity, brightening every aspect of him. He’s a fluorescent bulb, turned on.

“We should get going.” David Snow says and starts pulling Simon toward the car.

“I guess I’ll see you later.”

Simon says to Baz, eyes a light but not completely _there_.

Baz just nods, unable to find a voice, one that won’t shout out after Simon and tell his father to get his dirty hands away from Baz’s best friend. He just walks home.

Homework is the same as always. Boring and easy. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s compiled a list of study notes for Simon on this week’s topics. Habits.

Somethings never change.

Picket fences, Spotty’s lemonade, the kitchen cabinets.

Shiny cars, community meetings, the new year’s eve celebrations.

But most importantly, their friendship.

It would never change. _Promise?_

_Promise._

_I promise._

School the next day is the same as always.

He meets Simon at the side door, big and oak and wider than any door needs to be. Simon’s the same every morning- messed up hair, toothpaste stained shirts, untied shoelaces and forgotten lunch boxes. Baz hands him last night’s study notes and he smiles toothily in return.

Classes, classes and classes. The schedule’s the same.

In gym, they play football out on the school field. Baz tries hard not to stand out, but he can’t help stealing the ball away from Simon with a more fanciful move when he gets the chance.

Simon shoots him a mocking glare.

He nudges Simon awake with his heel in English, and Simon manages to rap his head on the desk tremendously before his eyes shoot open and Baz can just feel the glare on the back of his neck. He turns his head just enough so that Simon, behind him, can see his lip curl up in a smirk.

After the bell rings, they head to the park. The grass is soft beneath their shoes and the sky is cloudless overhead. They play catch even though Simon’s arms are still sore.

They fire the ball back and forth, until Simon sends one a bit off target and smacks Baz’s chest. The bucket full of other balls is quickly upended and full out war is raged. Baz manages to send one at Simon’s forehead, and gets one to the thigh in return.

They’re both panting and grass stained when it’s over. Giddy and up in the clouds on their youth and their happiness. So happy.

_For the moment._

“Daphne is going to kill me.” Baz says, admiring the black streak of dirt down the side of his jumper that Simon had just expertly placed.

Simon laughs.

“Not if I kill you first. You pelted me so hard I think I might have bruises until next month.”

“I’m not disagreeing.”

“Hey! My arms aren’t working properly today, I can’t take the blame for my poor throwing.”

Baz almost laughs, rolling in the grass.

“Sure.”

Simon shoves at his hair from beside him.

“You’re the one that’s to blame actually, since you taught me.”

Baz scoffs.

“I taught you perfectly, you are just a terrible pupil.”

He rips off a handful of grass and tosses it on Simon.

“I had to actually hold your arm and go through the exact motion with you until you actually got it.”

Simon pushes his hands skyward in protest.

“We were only five!”

“Six.”

Baz says. Simon sighs exasperatedly.

“What. Ever.”

They stay in the park too long, long past any of their bedtimes or curfews. Baz walks home alone, the street deserted, the line of houses daunting in their grayish uniform perfection. The door is unlocked, and his parents aren’t awake waiting for him.

Good.

He’d escape the talking to for tonight.

Walking up the stairs, trying to avoid the ones he knows creak, he tries to work a cramp out of his shoulder. He’s in the mood to play, but it’s nearly one o’clock and he’d wake up the entire block. He doubts he would be forgiven, even if the violin sounded lovely.

His bed is hard, he’d much rather have stayed outside on the grass, with Simon. He wonders how Simon’s doing. Doesn’t let himself consider what was probably inevitable tonight.

He’d see tomorrow.

That’s all he could do.

Make the effort to put a smile on Simon’s face, tease and tell him a joke. Make him happy for as long as possible, until he went back to that place and became unreachable.

Simon has to walk a bit further than Baz, the house on the very edge of the neighborhood, the last of the identical white two-stories. The streets look different at night, when you can get that feeling that only comes with knowing that you are the only one awake among a thousand dreamers.

Baz must still be awake. It wasn’t news to Simon that his friend had trouble sleeping.

Always restless, always working, always trying to be better even though it was clear to Simon that he had nothing to better himself on?

Always the perfectionist. Simon had known him a long time, from the day that they met, to that whole summer they spent together, making mischief and sharing dreams. But he still couldn’t help but wonder, had Baz always been that way? Trying to achieve some invisible goal, prove himself to some force that Simon was oblivious to?

He couldn’t know.

They shared secrets. Important ones, big ones, ones that were kept securely between them like candy stashes, prized possessions, that one red rubber ball.

But not secrets like _those_.

The newly polished floorboard creaks under Simon’s weight, and he tries his best to close the door softly.

The kitchen light is on, the hall light off. In the back he can hear rustling and clinking, the melodic chimes of bottles that signify how tonight was going to go down.

He should know better. Never stay out late. Never stay out too long. Especially with Baz.

Don’t do anything to provoke it, even if it seems inevitable.

Because he walks into the dining room, footsteps meshing with the angry and fumbled slam of a glass, the stumbled standing up of a drunk.

And there is his father.

Hands shaky and eyes wild.

Suit rumbled, but Simon’s not mistaken, it’ll be perfectly steamed and ironed the next morning.

This David Snow is his. This version of his father is the one only he sees.

Not the pressed, polished version of law obeying, rule enforcing, gentled handed grace that comes to his ball games on Saturdays, that claps his shoulder at church, that wiped his tears when he was five.

This version is raw. It’s raw and it’s truthful.

Crumpled papers and receipts, hair infested with plaster dust and cushion lint.

Hands in fists.

Stomping toward him sounding like avalanches of mountains.

Eyes that have no compassion, only guilting, unchanging hurt.

A mouth that slurs, unlike the same one that has made dozens of speeches about community protection and security, hours before.

Saying “It’s okay, son.”

But it’s really not.

“Your fault.”

But it’s not.

What has he done?

Nothing, nothing.

But this is what he gets.

He’s hunching over before he can recognize it, trying to tune out the sound of the oncoming pain.

More footsteps that sound like sentencing drops of the gavel and then there’s the first, at his gut.

**Stay conscious.**

_how?_

This is his battle now. There’s no fighting anything except his own willingness to drop out, no fighting back against his father, just his pride. But it is so, so, hard and the darkness is so, so, welcoming.

Let him win.

No.

No no no no no.

But that’s how it always will be.

More blows are coming, faster than he can brace himself for. His father doesn’t seem to notice the bruises forming fast under his knuckles, fingerprints printed in purple appearing on Simon’s collar.

It is _so_ hard.

The fifth’s to his temple, the seventh to his thigh.

He begins to imagine the hits are as light as the rubber balls he’s thrown today with Baz. Trying desperately to turn punches into playful pushes, and all of the pain into not something. Inexistent.

Baz.

Playing catch. Sending balls flying at one another. Laughing and laying the grass.

Baz.

**Carry on.**

**He’s got to carry on.**

_why?_

Baz.

The blows come endlessly and he holds on for as long as he can. His father eventually collapses beside him, making a mess of the bottles and blankets on the floor that will be gone in the morning. He’s vaguely aware that he hasn’t done his homework. Wonders if he’ll be able to hold a pencil tomorrow.

Every part of him is screaming, but he’s so used to it that he can somewhat turn down the volume. There’s always the urge to run, to give up, but as he lays he daydreams of tomorrow, shinning and happy in its new dawn.

And when he feels himself falling too far, he clings to the only thing he’s absolutely sure of.

Ashen eyes.

Black locks.

The fact that Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is wonderfully differently alive. That nothing can change him, nothing can break him. That Baz is alive.

And he’s Simon Snow’s best friend.


	3. heart shake, bend and break

_**[ You make my heart shake** _   
_**Bend and break**_   
_**But I can't turn away**_   
_**And it's driving me wild**_   
_**You're driving me wild ]**_

 

Simon nudges Baz with his foot but the red lump of blanket doesn’t move.

When Baz sleeps, he _really_ sleeps. Simon doesn’t dare move the head of black locks from its position on his knee, though. He just watches. He can’t imagine how such a position could ever be comfortable- but Baz is a cat.

Able to sleep anywhere.

Nocturnal.

Passive aggressive.

Simon imagines that Baz would probably beat him into the ground though, if Simon ever thought about petting him.

He listens to the sound of Baz’s breath, sees the curve of his lips and the sweep of dark eyelashes- the only thing he can make out among the layers of silk and fleece. He can’t imagine how Baz sleeps with so many blankets either- Simon is sweating and he’s not even wearing a shirt.

They’re in Baz’s room, always Baz’s room, passing a Sunday night away before they have to get a ride to central theater at six thirty. They’re both still in a bit of a sugar haze- Simon’s sure they’ve consumed twice their weight in mint aeros and pumpkin mocha breves. He knows he won’t be able to sit still later, but at least the treats have left Baz in a sort of sugar induced coma.

He needs the sleep.

He has _always_ needed the sleep.

Simon can’t remember a time when his best friend’s eyes weren’t shadowed with bags. Baz hid it well, he’d always been good at hiding things, but Simon liked to think that even though he was oblivious to a lot of stuff:

girls,

how to properly multiply decimals,

what the hell he was doing wrong,

what his father wanted,

he liked to think that he wasn’t oblivious to Baz.

They understood each other. _Always._

Simon didn’t talk to Baz about the lies, about being the heir of Pitch, about pushing everyone away except him and Baz didn’t mention the bruises. The ugly shades of purple, blue, yellow that dotted Simon’s torso, pains that kept him up at night thinking about running away- how he wanted and needed to leave this place though he probably never would and how it was all his fault.

His complete and total fault. _Always his._

Faults and failures and mistakes and bruises. They were synonymous in his life.

Simon and Baz didn’t talk to each other about the things that couldn’t be changed. The things that _couldn’t_ be helped.

Baz stirs beside him, hands reaching out of the blankets, like pale skeletons clawing their way up from the underworld.

“Morning sunshine.” Simon says, watching as one long, jean covered leg withdraws itself from under the covers.

Stretches.

Then another.

“What time is it?” Baz grumbles, sitting up fully and rubbing at his eyes with slim fingers.

“Time for another coffee.” Simon says, trying to swallow his grin.

“Christ,” Baz groans, “don’t remind me.”

Simon slouches back into the pillows, pushing a crumple of wrappers off the bed and watches Baz amble to the bathroom and turn on the tap. When he returns, his hair is noticeably both wetter and tamer. Simon doesn’t bother to tell him that there’s a piece beside his left ear still sticking up.

Let him be imperfect for once.

_Just for a minute._

Baz rubs at his eyes again, glancing lazily over at Simon whose eyes are beginning to close once more.

Baz hits him with a pillow.

“Hey!” Simon says, rubbing his arm because Baz has gotten really good at throwing pillows over the years and that actually hurt.

“I’m not being late because you decided to fall asleep again.” Baz says, scowling.

“You were the one that was sleeping.”

Baz crosses his arms, another talent of his. “I am quite certain that I don’t snore.”

Simon waves him off with a defiant hand, curling up around an edge of blanket.

“Five more minutes?”

Baz hits him with another pillow.

"Please?"

Baz runs another hand through his hair and sighs,

“Simon.”

“Okay, two.”

Baz rolls his eyes, snorting softly, watching Simon as he cocoons himself further in the sheets.

“Fine.”

He turns away and starts to walk towards the wardrobe on the other side of the room.

 “But I’m getting dressed and then you’re helping me take things out to the car. You’d better be ready.”

A third pillow comes just for good measure.

“Is that the only reason you keep me around these days? As a bellhop?”

Simon says, face in a cushion, but Baz can tell he’s grinning.

“Mostly.”

There’s a pause.

“Also for the amusement.”

Baz is has his back to the bed, facing the wardrobe, but he turns just in time to get a pillow to the face.

He sneers at Simon but there’s nothing but laughter in it. Simon gets the pillow back, forcefully, to the chin, as expected. Baz makes his way to the bathroom, hangar and shoes in hand and the door closes.

“You’d better be up when I come out, or I’ll dump a pitcher of water on your head.”

Simon’s beaming.

He’s never seen Baz get ready in under twenty minutes so he figures he’s got the time.

Simon’s arms get loaded with a water bottle, a couple bags and a thin black case that he’s careful not to drop. Baz’s suit is pressed and perfect, black. His hair is slicked and the color of midnight, shoes shined to the spotless color of ebony.

A sort of dark king.

With a violin.

They climb into Baz’s parent’s car, sleek obsidian and with leather seats like reclining chairs. Then they’re off.

Downtown is bustling, a steady stream of people on every side walk, lights flashing red and green and yellow above lines of cars. There’s something about being in the city and out of the suburb that changes something in Baz’s veins.

 _Anything_ could happen here.

Thousands of people live their lives, and he could be a violinist.

It’s a buzz in his heart and a press on his chest.

It might also be the gallons of caffeine that he’s consumed.

Probably.

The theater is all alight, giant arches, windows and columns making it seem huge in comparison to anything in sight. He can already feel the song on his fingers.

Simon helps him out of the car as his father goes off to park, taking the case from Baz’s fingers with warm hands. He’s practically bouncing on his heels and the sight sends lightning coursing to Baz’s toes.

The doors are huge and the reception is just plain big. He’s directed immediately to where the performers are assembling, the practice rooms, but not before Simon Snow can bump him with one of his broad, suit jacketed shoulders and say,

“You nervous?”

Baz smiles, because he can’t help it.

“No.”

Simon’s curved, lovely hands are clasped against the legs of his gray pants, and he’s shifting from foot to foot. He grins.

“Good. I’m nervous for you.”

Then he’s in the room, the tuning note droning in the background, the haze of people around him.

Unclasping the lock, undoing the zippers, unfastening the velcro until his fingers hit wood.

It’s smooth and soft and uncaring about who he is and where he comes from and why he’s such a mess up.

He flips the compartment open to grab the velour package, unbutton the clip, spread the amber rosin along the fine white haired layers of his bow. Fixes the tightness. Tests it on his palm.

His fingers slide around the narrow neck of the violin and tuck it under his chin. Everything about the motion is familiar, which calms him, he’s done this a hundred thousand times. He fixes his posture before his open strings join in the chaos of long notes and pegs twisting.

It takes a while to tune.

Soon everyone’s ready-

Spit valves emptied,

Xylophones assembled,

Violins tucked under arms.

His first step on stage, not really his first, is bathed in light.

They’re sitting, trading stands and painstakingly adjusting them, the anxious shifting of the crowd melding with squeak of chair legs and strum of accidental strings being plucked.

He listens for the footsteps and when he hears them, stands.

And then Melonie beside him, stands.

And then the entire first violin section, stands.

And then the whole orchestra.

They’re standing, as the conductor enters.

Takes her place.

He waits for the cue and when he sees it, sits.

And then Melonie beside him, sits.

And then the entire first violin section, sits.

And then the whole orchestra.

**Then it begins.**

 

* * *

 

 

Simon hears his sharp intake of breath as the baton raises and the auditorium is sent into sound. Swelling and dropping off, the music falls in waves and it’s beautiful,

Just like he knew it would be.

A high note and a dip, a sweep of trills and the blare of two horns. The rush of tremolo, pizzicato, arco, pizzicato, arco, it’s tearing him apart and putting him back together all at once. The press of strings, keys valves, overlapping and switching and meshing together, _drawing out_ and sending back.

 **Softer** and _softer_ and softer so that a dropped pin could be heard.

Repeating and altering, repeating and taking a completely new key, switching and changing and growing.

And at once it is so loud.

Pause and _lift._

Draw out a long, slow note and let it fade.

One and two and three,

One and two and three,

Seven and eight,

All together now.

They send the chorus spiraling as a new one ascends, discarding and replacing with notes as smooth as honey, as hard as ice, as high as air, as low as to feel it vibrating in your gut.

They are a large orchestra, taking up the entire platform and more squished together than Simon’s seen before.

Or it might just be their sound. It’s _immense._

Their songs are so whole, one instrument with many voices that crescendo and fall into place effortlessly.

Or they make it look effortless. Simon can’t help the tap of his foot and the dip of his head.

Despite the rush of caffeine and sugar, he can’t focus on anything else but the symphony. He can’t not lose himself in the resounding melody.

_So this is what it feels like to be part of something._

They are a large orchestra, but Simon can only see Baz.

His cheeks are rose with the pounding heat and heart of playing, the sheen of sweat around his collar only visible in the glare of the theater lights. He looks so _right._

Orchestra all in black,

Hair black,

Eyes gray,

Hands that blur against the strings as they move,

Emotions that leak onto his face when he’s too preoccupied to control them.

And Simon’s just _so_ proud.

This is his best friend. What did he ever do to deserve someone like this?

Simon’s head is filled with noise as the largest crescendo comes. Baz’s arm is moving at the speed of light as the melody is firing at all angles, a never ending wall of sound until there’s just one single violin.

And it’s him.

Baz.

Simon’s breath is gone.

Baz and his violin.

He holds the note for an eternity.

_Perfectly._

The audience holds its breath as he takes the song higher, lifting it up to the stars with red abused fingers and a face that reads-

**I was meant to do this.**

The rest of the stage soars to meet him and together they drive the melody home on nearly spent energy and heavy breaths, pressing hard and fast to a flying, stardusted climax.

Simon wishes it didn’t have to end.

The applause erupts and the orchestra stands, smiles plastered on every face. Simon keeps staring at Baz, watching him search the crowd for his parents, find them and smile gently. The lights come on again, and the stage files off. The auditorium is enveloped in chatter and the sipping of fluted glasses.

Simon’s left to his own thoughts. He hopes Baz knows that he belongs up there. Nothing has ever looked so right. Surely he’s noticed.

Simon remains awkwardly by his seat, watching the doors to the practice rooms and checking the crowd for the pitches. He hopes that they remember they’re his only ride home.

There’s the unclicking of the lock, and a stream of youth emerges, clothed in black and still giddy on their performance. Simon looks until he can see the familiar set of shoulders, the stride of long legs, polished smile. He doesn’t hesitate to make his way over.

Baz’s head is still muddled with notes and dreams when he gets the tap on his shoulder.

Of course it’s Snow.

He can’t help his smile turning from one that’s practiced to one that’s real.

Simon’s suit is more rumpled than when he last saw it, of course, and the blue of his eyes is incandescent.

He’s got two glasses in his hands, full of something clear and carbonated. He smiles sheepishly.

“They wouldn’t let me have the wine. It’s sprite.”

Something in Baz’s chest tightens.

How is it that being here, in the theater, in the city, out of the suburbs, with Simon wearing a gray suit and Baz with a violin case in his hands, it feels so immensely different?

It feels like something in him is on fire.

How could he forget that this is possible?

That it’s possible to feel like happiness is not temporary, like he won’t wake up tomorrow and have lost everything he’s ever worked for?

Simon.

His family.

Have lost himself?

“You okay?” Simon says, he’s looking at Baz like he’s waiting for an answer that’s long overdue.

“Fine.” Baz replies, taking a sip of the soda in his hand.

“You guys were amazing tonight,” Simon’s saying, but all that Baz can think about how he doesn’t want to go home tonight.

Can they stay here forever, Simon wearing a gray suit and Baz with a violin case in his hands? Stay in the aftermath of an earthshaking concert, with awful tasting sprite and polished shoes, beginning to feel for once that things might be okay?

But his parents come, they grab their coats from the coat check, they drive down the same road.

Home.

**Home.**

Why does the word feel like such a death sentence?

It’s dark and Baz can tell that Simon is falling asleep. The way back is not long but by the end of the trip, Simon’s head is on Baz’s shoulder in the back seat, bronze curls tickling at the nape of Baz’s neck. The heat of Simon's breath softly touches and recedes against his skin. They pull up in front of Simon’s house, and Simon's head jolts up immeditely at the sound of the parking brake.

“See you tomorrow.” He says, mouth twitching at the corner. The house looms in the side of Baz’s view, huge and pristine and daunting. A prison.

He smiles in a tired sort of way at Baz, sliding out of the car, his jacket on his arm.

He’s walking up the pavement, so small in comparison to the structure in front of him. He turns and gives a half wave, halfway up the steps before the car pulls away.

How much Baz would give for Simon to be away from there, to know something other than happiness that only lasted for five minutes.

For Simon, fifteen and clueless and blue eyed, to be away and free and happy and unhurt, with people to love him and care for him _like he should have had._

For something to change here where change was unheard of, so that, for once, Baz could believe that things would actually work out.

There was _nothing_ he wanted more.

He would not lose Simon, he would not.

Simon, Simon and **Simon.**

Simon was everything. Baz was starting to get that.


	4. fire with no smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're changing it up a bit here guys so don't freak. This is just a slight flash forward to the present day, and we might have a few of these before eventually we get to the present day story.  
> Hopefully this is not too confusing.  
> Don't freak out. Just a flash forward. I'll put 'After' in the chapter summary so you know which ones the flash forwards are, but you all are clever so I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out.

 

**[ When we tried it, we were a fire with no smoke**  
**Rags to riches but I'm addicted to being broken**  
**Take my breath away, you know I'm bound to choke**  
**When I close my eyes I still see your ghost ]**

 

_How happy they used to be._

He wakes up for a moment and he’s not sure where he is. He can’t _possibly_ be in LA, in this hotel room, his violin case sitting on the desk across the room from him. It’s dark, impossibly dark, it should be nine am but the clock reads three.

For a second, just a brief flash, he’s giddy.

He’s doing what he’s always dreamt, he _escaped._

Then the other reality hits, hard, and he rips the sheets from his shivering form, remembering bruises and those soft lips, so, so, so close.

An inch,

A centimeter,

A millimetre,

Then gone.

**Simon.** How happy they used to be.

Both a night time fantasy and a night mare.

His cold feet are on the boring patterned hotel carpet, taking him to the bathroom where the light nearly blinds him. There’s a smudge of coal under each of his eyes, last night’s concert eyeliner. He takes the time to dismantle each shiny piece of steel from his ears and carefully put them in a cosmetics case. He decides on fresh blue ones. They glint against his earlobes like tiny sky orbs.

He didn’t choose them for their resemblance to a certain pair of eyes. Definitely not.

Those eyes he’s been trying to forget.

He makes it back to the main part of the room, still shivering, and takes the familiar piece of wood in his hands. It seems like yesterday, the concerts, the seeing a gray suit and feeling on top of the world.

Now this is his life. He had wished for it, but he hadn’t wanted it like _this_.

He tears his fingers apart pressing on the strings, not fucking caring if he wakes up the entire third floor. Then he stares at the wall for a while.

Simon. **Simon Snow.**

Checks his emails. There’s nothing new.

Fan mail. Manager. Fan mail. Producer. Record deal. Mordelia checking up on him. Event. Invitation. Event. Event. Event.

Sits aimlessly for another ten minutes.

**The fucking blue neighborhood.**

He tucks the violin under his chin again, preparing to destroy his hands and arms. He makes a mental note that he’ll have to get this bow re-strung tomorrow. He’s not sorry.

He dresses at eight thirty. Regular jeans and top, new shoes that do nothing to help his mood. He’s a walking storm cloud.

He yells at his manager because he can.

There’s a pair of horrible interviewers waiting for him at the office.

They’re not horrible. He just can’t. Not today.

Everyone he meets congratulates him, and he can barely return a thank you. Thankfully he has no live performances right now, because he wouldn’t do any good. His fingers still ache from the morning, and his head is full of not okay things.

_That huge house on the end of the block, how small he looked. The leaves and grass in his hair, grinning, how happy he looked._

He returns to the hotel at dusk and slumps against the pillows. Tomorrow probably won’t be any better. He needs to get things together soon though, the next tour starts in a week. Then he’ll be so busy, he won’t have time to think about all these things, and therefore be happier.

More oblivious and forgetful.

Daphne calls him on the hotel phone and they talk, he explains the bare minimum of details.

When the time comes for him to sleep, he can’t. He shifts and rearranges the pillows, but he can’t change what’s in his head. All he can think about is how happy they used to be. How lucky he is now. Simon.

All he can think about is how he’s escaped, but without Simon.

He’s broken the promise.

He’s left but Simon’s still trapped.

His breath grows heavier as he can picture the face that haunts him day and night. His best friend, halfway across the world, unreachable.

He said he’d never leave him alone. _Always be there._

Promise? Promise. Hands over hearts, pinky fingers intertwined, lips millimeters away.

And Baz had left.

Simon had been falling, sinking, and Baz had abandoned ship.

Why had they thought it would last forever, friendship?

He was here and this was now. He was out of there, escaped and gone, but he was still trapped too. Were you really free if you couldn’t get the place out of your mind? If you were forever haunted by memories and loss and still forever thinking about those days, that neighborhood?

More than anything, haunted by words.

Accusing “why?” s, and “I-“s, and hurt blue eyes that spoke louder than any voice.

He had everything he had ever wanted-

The career, the music, the support, the _difference_ of it all.

He had room service, and money, designer jackets, a producer, private parties, a fan base. He had no death threats, no back alley fights, scornful hateful glares.

He had everything he had ever wanted, but Baz still had nothing.

Because **Simon was everything.**

And Baz had lost him.


	5. hurt this good

 

 _**[ Leave this blue neighborhood** _  
_**Never knew loving could hurt this good, oh** _  
_**And it drives me wild ]** _

 

He hears the knock on his door, but it opens before he can say anything. His father’s head peers around the side of the door, hair brushed, the collar of his parchment white shirt is ever so straight.

“Simon? Are you almost ready?”

His fingers are fumbling with his tie and the buttons down his front, his knuckles being the aching purple mess that they are.

“Almost.” He says, quietly. Oh how he dreads these things.

It’s been like this forever, Sunday evening community dinners on the last week of every month. Everyone will be there. Everyone _has_ to.

“What?” his father says, stepping farther into the room. He must not have spoken loud enough.

“I’ll be down in a minute.” Simon says, a bit louder this time. His throat hurts a bit. He doesn’t cry during it anymore, unable to see the point, but still the memory of having once cried makes him feel like he’s swallowing gravel.

Then his father’s gone. He finishes getting dressed slower, tucking in his shirt and trying to fix his hair. He’s fighting a losing battle. The thatch of curls have their own ideas so after a minute, he just leaves them. He doesn’t have the time or the energy.

The stairs creak on his way down. He grabs a glass of cold milk from the fridge to try and calm his fraying nerves. He has no reason to be nervous, _it’s just-_

These nights, these dinners, they put him off. They make him feel, even more than usual, that he can’t do anything right, or say anything the right way, and there are just _so many people-_

**He doesn’t have a choice.**

His father comes into the kitchen, starling him and making him spill a drop of milk down the front of his suit. Walking over, he comes over to wipe it away with a strong finger.

“Careful.”

Simon feels his mouth twitch as his father lays a strong hand on his shoulder.

“We should be off.”

He ruffles Simon’s hair.

“But I just wanted to say, that I’m so proud of you, Simon.”

He’s pulling Simon into his chest, and Simon’s wondering what he has done to earn this.

Why?

Why now?

Simon can smell the warm smoky scent that’s always been his father's, coming off the fabric of his shirt, reminding him of summers long before any of this, when they would play catch and _everything was okay_. His strong arms around Simon’s back and it feels so _right._

He knows he won't, he _shouldn’t_ want this. He doesn’t need it.

But David Snow is still his father. Every version of him is still his father.

Simon still can’t help hating himself for leaning it to his father’s touch, for thinking that this changes anything.

Because he should know by now that it fucking doesn’t.

“My son.” David Snow is murmuring, “ _My boy._ ”

They take the shiniest vehicle they own, the newly cleaned suv, and struggle to find a parking spot near the house. Simon’s known the family that’s hosting the dinner ever since he was born, so he lets them make their comments about _how much he’s grown_ and _how well he’s playing ball this year_ , even though they probably saw him just last week, and he tries to respond appropriately.

There’s a new couple there tonight, newly married and occupying one of the houses a street over from the Snows.

His father makes him talk to everyone.

They talk to him, even though he’s only fifteen and he’s never sure if they are going to shake his hand or give him a hug, so he’s stuck somewhere in between and they’re staring at him weird.

Always so stuck. Messed up.

The door opens for the billionth time and he notices Baz from across the room, looking tall and elegant in dark green. Looking _different._

He’s a black hole among stars, a dark king among peasants.

And everyone seems to notice.

All of the eyes are immediately on Baz, but he’s looking towards Simon. Simon gives him a hesitant smile.

Of course they don’t actually reach each other for another twenty minutes. Simon gets roped into an important conversation about dinner plates with Mrs. Obrien and Baz keeps getting interrupted as he tries to walk Simon’s way.

Baz knows that his hatred of these Sunday nights isn’t showing, but that doesn’t make it any easier. There’s another lady on his elbow, chatting him up about the newest gossip, and one in front of him who’s just appeared out of absolutely nowhere.

“A handsome young man like you, you must have a girlfriend. Is she here?”

It sounds like he doesn’t have a choice. Is there any way to answer the question without being rude, being more different than he already is?

“No.” he says, trying to appear calm as he feels like the world’s tipping under his shoes. “Not yet.”

“Oh I’ll have to catch her later then.” The lady says, smiling.

Dammit. **Damn it all.**

A man catches Baz’s eye and starts making his way over. Baz resists the strong urge to sigh. Couldn’t Simon get over here already and take him by the elbow, so they could sneak off to some back corner together and share stolen pastries?

_Get away from here._

_Maybe for tonight, maybe for forever._

“Tyrannus, right?” The man says, face breaking into an easy smile.

“Yes.”

“Malcolm’s son, then.”

“Yes.”

He nods his head, thinking to himself before meeting Baz’s eyes again.

“You’re aiming to be a banker then, just like your father? Keep up the family tradition?”

A musician.

_I want to compose my own songs, have my own concerts-_

“Of course.” Baz says, making himself laugh, “I’ve never wanted anything else. A simple profession, but a good one.”

The man is nodding again, accepting the answer. He claps Baz’s shoulder.

“Good man.” His eyes spot someone else in the bustle of people. “I’ll see you later. You have a good night.”

“You as well.” Baz says quickly, already moving. He’s got to get to Simon, got to get some fresh air, get a drink of something in his hand before he crashes and burns and completely ruins his reputation-

And there he is. He’s got that tired grin on his tired face, blue eyes drooping in a way that only Baz can notice. Leaning against a wall like it’s what he was meant to do, holding two square glasses of something light brown and on the rocks.

The slant of his cheeks and the mess of his hair tell Baz that he knows _exactly_ how he feels.

Gently edging past one more dinner party goer, Baz’s eyes momentarily slide shut with relief at reaching his best friend. He sighs, deep but quiet, everything that’s pent up in him from the hour of talk gliding away from his skin, the wrongness sliding back down his throat like bile.

“Hi.” Simon says, breathy, with creases on his forehead.

“Hey.” Baz replies, relaxing his shoulders to discreetly press his back to the wall.

“I got you some iced tea.” Simon places the cold glass into Baz’s palm and watches him take a sip.

Baz lets his eyes close again. Just for a second.

Don’t think that he didn’t see the new pair of twin blue bruises peeking out on Simon’s wrists. The image of them plays and replays in his mind’s eye.

“It’s only a couple more hours.” Simon’s saying, just loud enough for the two of them.

Baz sighs, just for Simon’s ears. There’s a minute, and then Simon sighs too, agreeing.

“Do you think they’d notice, if we ran out the back door?” Simon says, quieter. His lips barely move, and he takes another drink of iced tea to cover up the conversation.

“I think they’d notice.” Baz considers. “It’s our parents we’re talking about.”

Simon nods, bumping his head against the wall softly. His eyes are closed now, and Baz’s are open.

“These people.” Simon says.

 _These people._ Baz agrees silently.

Because what could possibly be more important than the latest gossip, traditions, maintaining the image, sticking to the past, not changing and not changing and not _ever_ changing.

“They’d notice.” Baz says again, and watches the little hand on the kitchen clock tick down the seconds.

**52, 53, 54.**

Simon’s got his hands pressed to his face now, pushing them over his eyes and into his hair.

**59, 1, 2, 3.**

“Not that I’d fucking care.” Simon says, and they both know it’s a lie.

This has never been about what Simon cares and doesn’t care about. Just about what David Snow cares and doesn’t care about.

Both pairs of eyes open. Gray and blue.

Find him in the crowd of people, the very center.

David Snow.

Smiling like it’s his job, shaking hands in a way that suggests he’s done it a hundred thousand times. Dark suit, white glinting teeth, freshly brushed hair and mustache. Pristine posture, the set to his shoulders practiced and chin lifted _ever_ so slightly.

They both know it’s a lie.

_Liar, liar liar._

Father.

Enemy.

Such lies he spins for these people, _if only they knew that-_

Baz doesn’t let himself complete that thought.

Beside him, Simon’s lean turns to a slump, his features droop a little more, threaten to slide of off his jawline like wet paint. Baz makes their shoulders touch.

Simon blinks, his eyes staying closed for a second too long. He goes back to staring at his father.

David Snow laughs at something that’s been said. He raises his wine glass in a toast and the people next to him follow. They all drink to it. Simon just stares, slouching a bit further and Baz decides at once that they’ve got to get out of here.

He lets his finger tug at Simon’s suit jacket, and Simon's head gives a semi startled jolt. His blue eyes are a bit daze as he looks at Baz in his sideways way, temple against the wall and gives a barely aware “hm?”

Baz lets his hand come to rest on Simon’s shoulder, pushing so that he’ll step back, away from all of this but then there’s a-

“Just a second. Let me find him.”

_And the crowd is turning toward them._

Baz’s hand goes off of Simon’s shoulder like it’s a burning stove top, and Simon stumbles backwards, steadying himself on a table.

David Snow is walking to his son, in the sort of way that suggests he means to talk to him, his haughty gaze and pearl smile reassuring everyone in the room that he really will be _just a second_. Simon’s leaning in on himself and Baz’s hands are clenching into fists until David Snow’s hand clamps down on Simon Snow’s shoulder.

Simon’s mouth twitches.

David Snow says, “Son, there’s some people who I’d like you to meet.”

And something clicks into place. Like batteries into a flashlight, a snap of fingers, he’s illuminated.

Simon Snow is a robotic, walking, talking, doll with glassy blue eyes and bouncing bronze curls that no longer look just messy, but messy in a perfect sort of way. And he walks alongside David Snow, dwarfed by him, like a prince coming home.

He shakes hands in a way that suggests he’s done it a hundred thousand times. Dark suit, white glinting teeth, pristine posture, lifted chin, the set of his shoulders-

_And his smile is just like his father’s._

It’s all Baz can do to not drop his glass. His heart still drops to the floor, and he hears it crack.

Or that might just be Simon’s laugh, it kills something in him. It’s just so _awful_. So _‘oh no I did not know that, what a surprize’_ , so _‘my father’s watching so I’d better act like that was funny and like you didn’t just kill me with that comment’._

It’s not Simon’s laugh at all.

There’s no rouged cheeks, clutching stomachs, gasping for breath. There’s no ‘Baz, cut it out, stop fucking tickling me’

‘I swear it’s not funny’

‘I just can’t stop. laughing.’

This is a Simon that Baz has never met.

David Snow just stands there at Simon’s side, that one strong hand across Simon’s strong shoulders that are starting to seem not so strong anymore in context. Like he owns him. Baz’s fists clench further and he can feel his pulse racing in his wrists.

Simon’s still talking and David Snow’s gaze is drifting around the room. It comes across Baz’s eyes and he stares.

Like he _knows._

Baz can feel every beat of his heart as David Snow stares him down with icy eyes, and it is such an outright challenge that Baz can’t be sure he isn’t hallucinating.

It’s a ‘ _stay the hell away from my son.’_

And Baz is sure he knows.

He waits, and waits, as they talk and the fake smile on the Fake Simon’s face begins to fade and fade. Finally David Snow’s hand leaves Fake Simon’s shoulder, and Baz can see the burden fall off him as he practically falls back over to the wall beside Baz.

“Hi.” Simon says, weaker than before.

“Hey.” Baz says, jaw clenched.

They stand in silence for a while as Simon’s eyes fall closed. Everything about him is falling.

“Are you okay?” Baz says, more a movement of his mouth than a sound.

Simon’s eyes stay closed.

“No.” Not even half a word, just a release of breath.

His head falls onto Baz’s shoulder. Around them, the chatter is still on going, but all that Baz can hear is Simon’s breath in his ear.

In and out. In and out. He’s still alive.

But that can’t be the only thing that fucking matters.

Baz unclenches one fist, lets his palm hit the wall. And then he lets it find Simon’s left hand.

Simon’s fingers are cold, and he doesn’t move. His breath is hot on Baz’s collar, and he’s _alive._

Simon’s skin is soft, and he doesn’t move. So Baz keeps holding his hand.

He looks out towards the crowd of people, sipping wine, oblivious. Back to the mop of curls on his shoulder, feeling the steady pulse under his best friend’s cold wrist, the warm air on his neck.

He holds Simon Snow's hand

and he decides that he will never let go.


	6. turn it up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After.

 

 **[ Have you heard me on the radio?**  
**Did you turn it up?**  
**On your blown-out stereo**  
**In suburbia ]**

 

_How happy they used to be._

 

Waking up for Simon is like plunging into a pit of cold water. He gasps and sputters, the hurt that he feels increasing with every second. He fumbles for the light, rocking back and forth to try and find some refuge. He flips the switch and takes a few deep breaths, lying flat on his back, and tries to think of nothing.

Outside the window, the skies are a deep, deep, gray and he thinks about what a relief it is that he has to go to work today. Let him be free, even if it’s just for a second.

When he comes to the kitchen, there is his father, in a neat buttoned shirt, a coffee cup at his elbow. He stares as Simon shuffles in and takes a seat. Neither of them say anything.

There used to be talking and grumbling and yelling and screaming, but now there’s just silence.

Neither of them have anything to say,

except,

“You’ll home at seven. We’re watching the baseball game.”

It’s not a question, but an order. Simon just nods, his neck aching at the movement. He can feel each and every dark spot on his skin, and by the number of them, they won’t be easy to hide. Still, he says nothing.

He splashes water across his cheekbones, touches the mole beneath his left eye.

He dresses.

Clean shirt, dark pants, shoes that have seen better days. His hair is more catastrophe than mess but he can’t bring himself to care. He walks bleakly into the morning, down a road he’s known forever. The back doorbell of the bakery rings when he enters, and the smell of all baked things hits his nose.

He just blinks.

Takes an apron.

“Good morning,” Albert says. Simon nods, even though he doesn’t see what’s _good_ about it.

The next few hours are a blur of finding ingredients, kneading dough, watching the oven. People come and go out of the shop and Simon makes sure to look at each one of their faces.

Brunette, green eyes _(nope.)_

Blue eyes, blondey brown curls _(no.)_

Dark black waves, gray-

God, he’s still so _hopeful._

After all this time.

 

He shouldn’t be, _why is he?_

 

He needs to stop this.

 

He’s got to stop searching, because he’ll never find what he’s looking for.

 

 _That_ is _that._

 

He sends his eyes back to watching his hands work, rolling out cookie dough. Back to work. Just stick to work.

His arms have definitely built up muscle ever since he started working here, all the lifting and pressing and pushing.  Which is good for his throwing.

_Not that it matters anymore._

He hasn’t been on a ball team in over a year, hasn’t even touched a bat.

His father hates that. It’s a small victory.

Simon misses it but he just can’t bring himself to play. Baz-

 

**_Stop. It._ **

 

Simon nearly slams his hand back down on the counter, remembering all at once that he’s bruised and breaking things might not be a good idea.

 Can he do _nothing_ right?

 He’s got to stop.

 

There is _nothing_ to be done about his best friend.

 

His eyes close, mouth quirked to the side, and he runs exasperated fingers into his hair, getting dough and flour all over himself.

 

Baz left. He’s never coming back.

Baz **left.** He’s _never_ coming back.

 

He repeats the truth to himself until the words lose their meaning. _It still hurts_. The truth has never been kind to Simon.

Simon, who’s never been able to do anything right.

 

For the rest of his shift, whether he fucking wants it or not, he gets a mental slideshow of images and memories.

 A pale lipped mouth ghosting a whisper in his ear, a suit-jacketed shoulder bumping him gently, a soft, cold, hand holding his own.

 His face in a shirt that smells a bit like cedar and a bit like bergamot and whole lot like his best friend, while everything’s gone wrong, while it’s dark and all of the wolves are out. Out in the field, joined at the wrists, teaching and learning.

 

Burning up.

 

_That night._

 

A cheek turning warm under his hesitant hand, those eyes, quicksilver, drawing him in.

 Warm breath. _His_ breath.

Ever, ever, so close.

 

 **_Stop._ ** _Please stop it._

 

He can’t fucking take it.

His hands are at his face again, impossibly trying to claw these thoughts out of his head. He knows he’s getting himself covered in baking soda and cocoa powder, but he just needs these things to stop replaying, on and on and _on._

It’s driving him insane. He’s stuck wondering, thinking, hurting-

 

_Why?_

 

There’s nothing else.

 

Just, _why?_

 

Simon can guess why Baz left. He was never meant to be in this place, this neighborhood had never deserved him, Simon, had never deserved him.

How do you deserve _someone like that_?

 

Storm clouds for eyes and forest fires for blood.

 

Simon had done the exact opposite of deserving him.

 

_Fuck._

 

All at once, he thinks he gets it. The reason Baz left, is plain and simple.

Everything is a bit clearer. The pressure on his temples eases as he falls into numbness.

Baz hated him. Plain. Baz hates him. Simple.

That’s _got_ to be it. Promises and friendship non-withstanding, Baz had finished with him. Or maybe he had never liked Simon in the first place, _maybe it had all been pretend._

Baz had no ulterior motive. No underlying issue, threat or problem. _He just left._

 

And Simon hadn’t deserved a goodbye.

 

He walks home and all he feels is a little lightheaded. No pain. His father’s waiting for him as soon as he steps through the door, but he’s a void. He feels nothing, he is nothing.

 

The numbness helps him make it through the night.

 

As the morning comes and the birds sing, he tries to cling to it, his protection.

The sky is deep, deep, blue and Simon wishes that he had to go to work today. He doesn’t bother going downstairs because he knows that his father won’t let him outside.

 

This is how it has been since last year.

 

David Snow doesn’t want the green grass and the purple blooming lilies to poison his son with their brightness. David Snow wants to be the _only_ deciding factor in Simon’s life.

He will be sad, when David Snow wants him to be sad.

David Snow will be the _only thing_ that makes Simon Snow happy.

 No one else deserves Simon’s smile. No one else deserves Simon, _but him._

 

This is how it has been since Lucy died.

 

Simon’s pulling the covers away, trying to hold onto the numbness of yesterday for as long as he can, but the sun is breaking apart his concentration.

Reminding him of sunnier days before this, and ice cream-

 

And in a blink, it’s _gone._

The numbness, his shield, and his wall against everything, _it’s gone._ Replaced by all the pain and hurt and unanswered _‘why?’s._

Leaving him to fend for himself, emotions intact.

His heart screams and his feet and ankles rub together as he curls into the smallest of balls, compressing himself around the blankets and sheets. Because everything is wrong, _everything is so, so, wrong._

 

This was not how it was supposed to go.

 

What has he done, to deserve this year? This life?

He rolls over, pressing his mouth to the pillows, lungs moving too fast. He’s freezing all at once, shivering with the remembering every bruise on his skin. How had he forgotten they were there?

 

His alarm goes off and the radio beside his bed turns on.

Static crackles, music plays softly. Then louder.

Suddenly, everything freezes.

 

_Because he knows that music._

 

It’s slow and deep and lovely. Violin, with a whole expanse of bass behind it and in front is one voice.

The lyrics are smooth, utterly poetic, morose.

And Simon knows that voice. His hand is on the volume dial, and he doesn’t care if his father is still sleeping. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch’s violin is echoing out of the old speakers, and they do his singing voice no justice. It sounds just like Simon remembers, the voice that haunts his dreams and stays with him even while he’s awake.

 

His ears get caught in the melody, his _whole being_ does.

 

And the radio announcer is saying ‘ _and there you have it. Our number one for this week, on the new cover of Rolling Stone magazine, and the new face of alternative music, Baz Pitch.’_

 

And there’s something new pumping in Simon’s chest. It’s still shattered, but it’s stronger and it beats louder than before.

His heart. It beats in sync with that song.

As he lies in bed all day, on the floor all night, bruised and heaving, as he walks to the bakery on across the same three streets, eats dinner with the same fifty people, that song stays in his head.

 

His heart beats in his chest. He turns up the radio every morning, and every night, and every chance he gets, hoping to hear that voice, those melodies, those fingers that held his for so long.

Maybe Baz hates him, for what he is, for what he has done, but maybe it will all be alright if he just keeps those songs on repeat.

The melodies help him through everything,

The pain, the hurt, the ‘ _why?’s_ , the falling , breaking, aching, almost snapping-

They are the beat of his heart when it’s long past midnight and he hasn’t got the will to live.

 

And he starts to live for them.

 

Those songs.

_Baz._


	7. all i think about

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is totally possible for Baz to use the tip of his bow to brush his hair out of his face I did it today with my own hair and let me tell you it worked perfectly except for it getting caught and almost poking myself in the eye so don't you dare come screaming to me about this because i have fucking tried it and we're assuming that baz is more coordinated and has better hair than me so it's totally possible and it's what he did okay okay  
> fight me

 

_**[ White noise in my mind** _   
_**Won't calm down** _   
_**You're all I think about ]** _

 

They’re walking into the cafeteria, all a bustle of food trays and lunch tables. Baz is leading, Simon’s following, though they both know exactly where their table is after all these years. It’s not a quick process.

There’s all the-

_‘hey! Simon!’_

_‘how’s it going?’_

_‘I’ll see you later? Practice after school!’_

_‘Yeah I hope the coach isn’t making us run shuttles again’_

_‘hey, man!’_

_‘how are you?’_

The claps on the back that make Baz wince, all the others, smiling at Simon Snow. It’s always been like this, since high school started. When Simon started branching out, his words becoming less awkward and less only meant for Baz.

They finally sit down, across from each other.

They eat, Simon noisily, while Baz dictates him words to spell and he tries to enunciate the correct letters back through mouthfuls of pierogis and scones.

Baz makes a joke and it takes a second for Simon to realize, but he struggles to keep his composure with cheeks full of water he’s just sipped. That makes Baz laugh harder.

The bell rings and they part ways with knowing smiles, a gentle nudge of Baz’s shoulder to Simon’s side, a brush of Simon’s thumb on Baz’s palm.

“I won’t see you later. I’ve got ball.”

Something inside Baz sinks.

“Oh. Alright. I won’t wait up.”

“Okay.”

Simon grins. He pushes Baz’s arm with his open palm quickly, curls bouncing, before starting to walk backwards, narrowly avoiding crashing into a girl as he continues looking at Baz.

“See you!” he says loudly, turning forward to continue walking.

He turns backwards again in a second, blue eyes shining and the sheepish smile on his face.

“Or not! Nevermind!” he’s laughing even though Baz can’t hear it anymore, and Baz is shaking his head.

Simon gives his half-wave, the laugh still alive in his eyes, as he turns back around and manages to crash into a row of lockers.

His books go everywhere. Baz is crossing the cafeteria before he knows what he’s doing, down on his knees, his hand coiling around Simon’s math notebook.

Simon’s just laughing and his smile is infectious.

Baz can’t help his own lips from turning up at the mess, the mess of books on the floor beside him, the mess of a boy, also on the floor, in front of him.

“You’ve got to watch where you’re going.” Baz says.

Simon’s grin just expands, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t know how that happened. I was distracted.”

Baz picks up another textbook, dusts it off.

“Am I that interesting?”

Simon brushes off his jumper with his hands. The bits of paper stuck to it, remain stuck to it. He looks up at Baz and wrinkles his freckled nose.

“I’m not answering that. Your ego is big enough without my help.”

Baz smirks. Simon shoves his shoulder.

“I was just- ”

Baz is shooting him a look. Simon shoves him again.

“Okay. _Fine_. You’re very distracting, _Basilton_.”

It’s Baz who does the shoving this time.

“Don’t call me that.”

Simon grins, standing.

“What would you prefer? _Tyrannus?_ ”

Baz looks unimpressed, adjusting the Simon’s books in his arms.

“You should be getting to class, idiot. I’ll walk you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, but starts to walk beside his best friend anyway. Baz’s class is on the opposite side of the school, and it’s nearly time for the bell to ring, but here he is, carrying Simon’s dropped textbooks. Just how unimpressed he is still shows on his face, and he walks with such determination that all at once, Simon’s trying not to laugh again.

“Who’s the bellhop now?” he says, just loud enough for Baz to hear.

The sneer that comes over Baz’s features is nothing but downright hilarious. He manages to maintain it for a few seconds before Simon watches the smile climb over his best friend’s lips.

_“Shut up.”_

They’re both completely late to their separate classes, and even then, Simon’s holding back laughter as he walks into the room. It bubbles up his throat and he clenches his returned books to keep it from spilling out.

The covers are still warm from being pressed up against Baz’s chest.

Baseball practice after school is uneventful, as, of course, it’s conditioning day. The sprints and drills and circuits go on, which leaves Simon with trying to keep his mind occupied as the rest of his body is forced through repetitions of mindless running, and jumping, and catching.

He tries to keep his thoughts off of going home, because thinking about that is never a good idea.

Instead he lets Baz’s voice dictate spelling words in his head. He’s so going to ace that test tomorrow.

There’s running, and more running. A lot of push ups. And then a lot more running.

Simon doesn’t mind.

Gareth, his friend, shows up beside him and they run some more together.

“Simon!”

“Gareth.”

“The coach sure hates us today. I mean, this is conditioning day, but this is a lot of running.”

Simon laughs, even though he’s out of breath.

“I know. I really hope he lets us stop soon.”

Gareth smiles, looking out across the pitch, before his eyes come to rest on Simon’s shoulder. He notices a fresh bruise there, deep violet.

Simon notices him noticing.

He notices Simon noticing him noticing. Simon clears his throat.

“I-”

“Um.”

Gareth waits for him to get it out.

“I ran into some lockers. This morning.”

At least it’s not completely a lie.

“Oh man.” Gareth says, he’s smiling again, which is a relief. “Really? That hard?”

Simon laughs nervously, and hopes that Gareth doesn’t notice how fake it sounds.

“Yeah, I know. Not my most shining moment.”

Gareth looks at his shoulder again, nodding his head good-naturedly.

“Well I hope that heals up fast! It looks like it might be a pain to throw with.” He says, then adds, “We need you perfect for this weekend’s game. Entry into championships is on the table.”

Simon nods, sighing inaudibly.

“Right.”

Gareth gives him another smile.

“Well I should catch up to Rhys, he’s probably wondering what happened to me.”

Simon just nods.

Gareth puts on a burst of speed that Simon has no idea how he can still have, and runs toward the boy about fifty meters in front of them.

Later, after everyone’s had a good drink of water, they run through a couple of catching and batting drills. When they start with the throwing ones, Simon’s asked to demonstrate.

He’s giddy and a bit nervous, as he fixes his posture and positions the ball in his hand.

Baz’s voice appears at his ear again, a little distracting. It tells him the proper way to angle to his arm, raise his elbow a bit more, he feels the shadow of six year old Baz’s skin on his own. He lets the ball fly.

He throws perfectly.

If not a little off target. He’s distracted again.

He needs to focus.

_Focus._

The rest of the practice is spend focusing on focusing, and not on actually, just, focusing. He nearly gets a ball to the face as his mind decides to take a minute off, and remember Baz’s concert, a couple of months ago, _the music._

But, by far, the highlight of practice is when he walks into a fence.

_Jesus. Christ._

 

* * *

 

 

Baz is bored. He’s up in his room, he’s done his homework and he’s waiting for his mother to call him down for supper in two hours. His violin is sitting in his lap, but he can’t bring himself to play.

He’s already exhausted about a thousand scales, other technique bits like thirds and sixths. He’s _bored._

For one, he doesn’t have anything to play.

He’s worked next concert’s symphonies to the bare bones, he’s fixed his solos. Practiced a book chalk full of duets, both parts, and tried to play them both at the same time. He’s even gone as far as to put his music on shuffle and try and figure out the melodies and harmonies by ear.

But there’s nothing else to do. So now he’s just stuck messing around for two hours.

He’s balancing chemistry 30 equations in his head, plucking on the G and D strings and feeling them vibrate through the wood and into his hands.

He’s sitting on the bed, barefoot, bouncing slightly as he hums a song to himself, one that he’s tried to learn but never managed. It’s stuck in his head now, like the song’s taunting him. He uses the tip of his bow to flip a wave of his hair out of his face, frustrated.

Then he tosses it on the covers beside him. He switches the violin so that it sits in his hands like a guitar and lazily tries to strum at the strings.

_Why. Not._

The result is a not so great rendition of twinkle twinkle little star that any three year old with a sixteenth size violin could put to shame. He keeps plucking anyways.

He pulls all for strings with his fingers, one at a time, and feel them ring in his palms. They feel so powerful.

He wishes he had something to play.

Later, his mother’s voice carries up the stairs, telling him to come down. He’s fallen asleep, violin on his chest. He worries over it for a second, heart racing, desperate to make sure that he hasn’t crushed anything vital or damaged the bridge. He’s lucky this time.

He rubs his eyes, thomping down the stairs like he knows his step-mother hates.

Everyone is at the dinner table but him, when he gets to the dining room, and Daphne’s lips are drawn up in a way that suggests she _did_ hear him come down the stairs like a herd of elephants. He makes himself a reminder to give her extra help with the dinner on Sunday. It’s not her fault he’s tired and bored and annoyed at everything about everything.

“Basilton.” His father acknowledges him as he takes a seat.

The smell of roast chicken and thyme is lovely. Seeing Mordelia and the twins is nice too. He rarely has the time to check in on them anymore, with the music, the studying, the getting everything ready for graduating this year.

They look alright. He hopes that they are, alright, and _that they haven’t just learned to hide it like him and his father._

“How was school?” Daphne asks. Putting a portion of cooked vegetables on his plate.

“Regular.” He says simply, “Easy.”

She nods, and hands him back the dish.

“And how is Simon?”

Baz pauses and blinks. His eyes stay closed for a split second too long.

“Good, I think.”

_Not okay, and I know that as a fact._

Baz’s father smiles regally. “He played excellently last weekend. I think they might actually make it to the finals this year with that team.”

Baz looks down at the knife in his hand, nodding slightly.

“Perhaps.”

The hour passes quickly, unlike the previous two.

He’s standing in the kitchen, putting away dishes. He hands his plate to Daphne to scrape, and finds that she’s looking at him curiously.

“Is everything alright, Baz? You haven’t eaten much.”

He glances down at her, eyes looking uninterested. He shrugs, like Simon would.

“Just tired.”

“Nothing’s wrong?”

She’s stopped placing the cutlery in the dishwasher to look at him further.

“No.”

“With Simon?”

_Everything. Everything is wrong._

“Definitely not.” He sighs. “I am just tired, that is all.”

She seems to accept his answer, going back to stacking plates and bowls. Baz is almost ready to head back up to his room, to do what, he doesn’t know, but then Daphne turns to him again.

“Would you tell me?” She’s closing her eyes, like the words cause her pain. She takes a breath, setting the dish she’s holding against her thigh.

“Baz. If something was wrong, would you tell me?”

Baz takes a deep breath. He looks her in the eyes, even though he doesn’t want to.

“I don’t know.”

It’s the truth. He doesn’t know what else to say.

Daphne just nods. Closes her eyes for another second. Then she lightly waves him away with her empty hand.

Baz starts to walk away, and he’s just at the door when she starts talking again.

“Tell me. If something goes wrong. I’m here.”

Baz turns back, and their eyes meet across the kitchen. He leans on the doorframe.

“I know I’m not _her_. But I’m here.”

Something in Baz’s chest loosens. He purses his lips, and he blinks, taking a short breath.

“Thank-you.” He says quietly. “Daphne.”

He feels like a child again, in this moment, a child who’s lost his mother.

“Anything you need.” She says, quieter. She turns back to wipe a watery cloth across the stove top.

Baz nods.

As he’s walking back into his room, he considers that it’s possible she knows what’s going on with Simon. After a minute, he decides that it’s not.

There’s no way she could know.

_Simon._

He reaches his bed and his mind is screaming at him to sleep but his heart is screaming louder.

Play.

_Play, play, play, play, play._

For _him._

Simon.

He looks at the next symphony sitting on its stand in the corner of his room, and dismisses it. He can’t play that. He needs to play something for Simon, not something that he’s rehearsed until his fingers are raw.

Not scales, not pop music, not anything but-

_Make something up,_ his heart sings.

Everything pauses.

**Make something up,** his heart urges.

 

So that is what he does.

 

He picks up the bow, not caring if the tightness is okay, not caring if his strings are perfectly in tune.

Because Simon is not perfectly in tune, and somehow he’s still perfect.

He slants the horsehair on the violin, places his arm and his fingers. And he just _lets go._

He just lets it all go, falling out of him and into the strings and floating out into the air on lines of messed together notes.

The melodies fall together and clash as he tries to work them out, tries to make his fingers hit the notes that he hears in his head.

He plays.

Sometimes he gets stumped, he loses the composition, and it’s just the sound of his breathing that becomes the music.

It reminds him of all the nights, the sleepovers, Simon’s breath on his neck or his ear.

Simon’s still alive. He’s _more_ than alive.

And Baz vows to not let either of those things ever, ever, change.

He plays and he plays. Of summer days and sour cherry scones from the bakery down the way, of days where happiness was in such abundance. His happiness. Simon’s.

_Legato._

He plays strings of notes like water for when they pretended they were pirates.

_Pizzicato._

He plucks A’s and C’s, G’s and B’s, for their pillow fights, their teasing, throwing and catching.

He plays until the stars are out and his fingers are long past being only a little bit stiff.

The stars are shining, and the far away moon is glowing.

He’s breathing.

And five streets over, Simon Snow is breathing.

He puts the violin down and he does the zipper on the case.

He thinks of Simon. In that house. Back in his _prison_ of a home.

He thinks of Simon, sheepish and kind.

He thinks of Simon, who can’t spell a word to save his life.

He thinks of Simon, with the bruises across his abdomen like mauve and cobalt flowers.

He thinks of Simon, with _no_ confidence in himself.

He sits down on his bed.

He presses his forehead to his palms.

He presses his elbows to his thighs.

He thinks of Simon,

Simon,

_his best friend,_

Simon,

_who has been there for everything._

He thinks of Simon, and softly, hesitantly, he begins to sing.


	8. addicted to being broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After.

 

**_[ When we tried it, we were a fire with no smoke_ **   
**_Rags to riches but I'm addicted to being broken_ **   
**_Take my breath away, you know I'm bound to choke_ **   
**_When I close my eyes I still see your ghost ]_ **

 

_How did it go so wrong?_

 

He’s tired. He’s just _so_ tired.

Tour has been great. Every city, an assembly of bright lights in the back of his vision, reminding him of the glittering, sparkling, screaming nights that have passed. Hands waving, the music washing over him, touching all of these new people who he’s never met but who share a piece of his soul.

He can still just see it all- the glare of the neon, the sweat around his wrists like bracelets as a whole amphitheater sings with him. They _breathe_ with him.

He flings out the final note, the last of the lyrics spilling out of his mouth that go something like-

_I wish you were here._

And the echo rings into the air, becoming lost in the lightning and thunder applause.

But still, he’s tired.

_Just. So. Tired._

It’s been taking him longer to get out of bed each morning, and his fingers ache. A lot of things ache, but he doesn’t care to make a list. His hands are the most pressing issue, especially his left one, where his thumb still sits at a slightly off angle.

Bad memories.

 _That_ place.

_Simon-_

**Stop.**

Breathe.

_Continue._

 

It takes him longer to get the glittering dust off of his eyelids, the slight of rouge off of his cheeks. His nose hurts because he knows he hasn’t been cleaning the new piercing like he’s supposed to. His clothes today are nothing special, nothing compared to last night’s leather and shimmer and shine.

He exits the bathroom and slips his shoes on. He picks up the violin sitting on the desk briefly as he’s heading out the door. Plays a simple string of notes from that one song he needs more practice with. He grabs his key and steps outside.

And then he’s forced to face the day.

As far as days go, it’s not the absolute worst. He manages to keep his cool, and he doesn’t yell at anyone, doesn’t break down in the bathroom over lost happiness and bronze curls. It’s an improvement.

He has just one interview. It goes well. This lady doesn’t try to pick fights with him or try to get the low down on latest gossip, she just talks about his music. It’s these kind of interviews that are the easiest. Just say how he writes, say how long he’s played, what inspires him.

The practiced answers of course. Something like _‘oh I’ve always known I wanted to be a musician’_ and _‘the songs come fairly simply to me’_ and _‘I don’t have much of a specific source of inspiration’._

All lies. He knows they are, all lies.

But the magazines and radio programs really couldn’t care less.

There are a few that dare to dig deeper, dare to want his soul poured out in front of them so they can put it in an article, but he doesn’t give it to them.

They do not want to know what Baz’s soul looks like. He doesn’t think they’d be able to handle it.

He’s just off to a meeting with a bunch of people he barely knows, when he gets the phone call. For a second, he’s wondering how someone could possibly have gotten this number, but he sees the caller id and he remembers all at once that he has a family.

 

“Hello?”

He stops walking, deciding that meetings will have to wait.

“Baz.”

He recognizes Daphne’s voice immediately.

“Hi.” She seems surprized that he’s picked up and oh god he’s just turned his cell back on today, have they been trying to get a hold of him?

“Is everything alright?” he says quickly. “Have you been trying to call for long? I had my phone off and I haven’t had-”

“Everything is fine.” She says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh.”

He clears his throat.

“There’s no emergency. I was just calling.”

The line is silent for a minute as she waits for Baz to say something and he doesn’t.

“How is the tour?”

Baz fixes the phone in his grip, eyes closing.

“It’s going well.”

He pauses, taking in a breath. He hears her saying something away from the phone and catches a-

_‘Go bother your father, I’m talking to your brother.’_

“That’s great.” She says. “You sound tired.”

Baz feels a smile slip onto the edge of his mouth.

“It is very exhausting.”

She laughs, short and quiet. “I bet.”

There’s another pause.

“But you love it.”

Baz nods slightly to himself and then realizes that she can’t hear it.

“I do.”

Her sigh softly comes through the speaker, perhaps by accident, and Baz wonders for a second, if she’s tired too.

“That’s great. That’s wonderful.”

Baz pushes his hair out of his face, realizing for the second time that he’s going to be late for this meeting. He finds that he doesn’t care.

“The girls miss you.” She says. “And so does your father, even though he doesn’t admit it.”

He hears her light chuckle.

There’s a long bought of silence.

“I’m mostly calling, just…” she stops. “Would you consider coming home?”

_Home._

The word repeats in his head for a few seconds.

“I-”

He can’t seem to find the right words.

How do you say _‘I’d love to because I miss you all so much and all of this working and moving around is really wearing me out so much that some days I can’t even make it out of my hotel room but I can’t ever ever go back to that place you have no idea why and I can’t explain because there are some people but most of all there is a man-’_

How do you say it without crying, without going on and on, without losing your composure completely because that’s the only one thing you’ve been trying so hard to keep?

“Just for a week, even. Just to see your sisters.”

He clears his throat but he still can’t find his voice.

“For Christmas.” She says. Her voice goes quieter. _“Please?”_

 

He knows that he has to.

He needs to see them, needs to not be alone anymore.

But _that place_.

_Simon-_

**Stop.**

Breathe.

_Continue._

 

“Yes.” He says and the word feels like hope on his lips.

He can see Daphne’s smile.

He can see his little sister’s small fingers attaching themselves to his sleeve. His father shaking his hand and patting him on the back.

“I- I’ll have to bring it up with Andrew. To see if taking time off is okay. But I’ve got a meeting right now.”

“Call me when you figure it out. I can promise you a room here, we haven’t touched anything.”

She pauses.

“Well, there’s a possibility that Mordelia has gotten into your books. But I swore a promise not to tell.”

Baz’s eyes close again, thinking of his sister. How is it possible to miss someone who you used to spend every waking moment trying to get rid of?

“She looks up to you an awful lot.”

Baz can’t help his snort.

“I know.” Daphne says. “But it’s true.”

He hears something shuffle in the background, the clang of a pot.

“Well I’m just starting supper, and you should be getting to that meeting.”

Her voice is tired but happy.

“I’ll call you.” Baz says.

“I’ll be here,” she says, her voice more tired than happy.

And Baz wonders for a second, if the blue neighborhood is getting to her too. If his stepmother feels its constricting, throttling grasp like he does, if it keeps her up at night.

_It can’t, can it?_

Is this why she fought for him? Is this why she helped him leave?

“I don’t know if it makes a difference, or if it matters to you at all to hear this,” Daphne says, “But I’m very proud of you.”

Baz’s eyes close. His heart hurts.

“It does matter.”

It’s not a lie.

Something flutters in his chest, something that might mean that he’s starting to be okay again. Like _maybe_ he can do this.

 _Maybe_ he wasn’t just a one hit wonder. _Maybe_ his songs actually are alright. _Maybe_ his past thirty concerts haven’t been flukes.

“I’ll see you soon.” He says.

And for once, he can mean it.

 

“This might be a difficult thing to swing, but I think we’ll manage it. Mind you, you’ll be thrown straight back into touring when you get back…” Andrew’s saying.

Baz is barely listening.

“You’ve definitely earned your break.” He says. Closing up a file, like the conversation is over. “I’ll start looking into a ticket tonight.”

But Baz is barely listening.

 

The word is still echoing in his head like a gunshot.

_Home, home, home, home, home, home._

He can see a Christmas tree, his room, Mordelia’s smirking face, his father’s slippers.

His _house_.

The neighborhood he knows like the back of his hand.

The forest, the beach, the corner store.

The concert hall, the baseball pitch-

that place.

_Simon-_

**Stop.**

Breathe.

_Continue._

 

He takes another breath just to make sure he’s not going to break apart.

Home, home, home.

He’s going _home._


	9. when you look like that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry everyone for taking an extra day! I know this chapter is not by far the best, but I hope it gives some happiness (or sadness) before I manage to get the next one done! I've spent the past 48 hours running around and baking cakes like a madwoman, so hopefully I'll get some more time to myself today to continue this story! Thank you all so much for reading <3

 

_**[ Cause when you look like that** _   
_**I've never ever wanted to be so bad, oh** _   
_**It drives me wild ]** _

 

They find refuge under the trees, in that place that they’ve always had, that’s always been solely theirs. The sun is just reaching its height in the sky, shining through the canopy of leaves and leaving weird shadows on both of their faces.

Simon’s laughing, Baz is furiously brushing leaves out of his hair. Still, pieces remain stuck.

Their spot’s nothing but a tree, but it’s so much more.

A hide and go seek starting point, a shelter, a fort.

The twigs snap beneath their shoes, leaves crunching and the sound is so familiar. They walk further into the forest, not bothering to check watches or phones. This day is theirs for the taking. No stupid events, no homework, no tests, just _them._

Simon’s wearing army green, blending in with the branches and the sunlight catches turning his hair gold.

 

They find their place, like they have a thousand times. Just a log that’s a little bent. A small tree drapes its boughs, forming some semblance of walls, a doorway.

Or it used to look that way, when they were young.

Now Baz has to hunch over to slip underneath the tree and sit on the forest floor. The bushes around the tiny nook make it hidden, not all too easy to find if you don’t know exactly what you’re looking for. Every time, returning to it is like happening upon an old friend.

Simon settles down beside Baz, and Baz smiles because he can’t help it.

“How did the English test go?” Baz asks, his eyes meeting blue ones in a sea of greenery.

Simon’s picking a piece of bark off of the tree next to him.

“Alright! Thanks to you.”

There’s quiet for a minute, but it doesn’t feel out of place. The wind whistles through the brush and the birds chitter in the background, and they can hear the ocean even though they can’t see it.

“I can’t believe we’re graduating this year.”

Simon says. Baz is barely listening.

He’s watching the way Simon’s shirt fits over his baseball toned arms. He wonders if he’s noticed this before.

“I don’t feel old enough.”

Simon goes back to picking a dandelion and fiddling with it in his fingers.

“And I don’t have any idea what I’m doing.”

Baz nods absentmindedly, watching the light change the color in Simon’s eyes.

_Aquamarine, cobalt, azure, navy_.

“I mean you have your music.”

Simon shrugs, an extra punctuation to his sentence, and he blows the dandelion seeds into the air. They float like tiny parachutes and are quickly lost amongst the trees. Baz wonders what he wished for.

“And I have ball, but it’s not like I’m going to go pro?”

He sighs, but the sound is lost in the breeze blowing through the bushes, so Baz only sees the expression of it on his face. His jaw relaxes and he swallows deeply as Baz watches. He looks over to Baz then, maybe realizing that he’s been the only one talking for a while, but Baz is already looking away.

“I might get a job at the bakery. Not that I’d be any good.”

He sighs again. His fingers go to fiddling with the sleeves on his shirt, and his foot taps an arrhythmical beat on the ground.

“Oh you’d do fine. I’m sure they need someone to test all of the baking. You’d be a natural.” Baz says.

That makes Simon Snow smile. Not hugely, but it is an improvement.

“And I’m certain you’d get free samples to take home. Or at least the burnt ones.”

Baz smiles, because again, he can’t help it.

“You should just take to burning all the batches on purpose, and then you can take them all home.”

“Then I’d get fired, you twat!”

Simon gently shoves Baz’s arm, and his lips briefly near Baz’s neck.

Baz doesn’t know why he notices. _But he does._

 

They play catch for a while, but the trees have the habit of getting in the way, so they stop.

 

They’re lying flat on their backs now, on dead leaves and probably a lot of insects but Simon resolves not to think about that. The sun is on its decent in the sky, and the birds have quieted, leaving only the occasional blow of wind to rustle the branches.

“What do you think you’ll do? When it’s over?” Simon asks, softly.

He watches a bird hop from one bough to another.

“What?” Baz says. His voice is slow, like he’s almost falling asleep.

“After we graduate?”

Baz’s eyes are closed, but he gives a thoughtful hum.

“Travel? Go to Uni?”

Baz’s eyes remain closed.

“Oh, I don’t know, Snow.”

Simon’s brow furrows, his toe taps even more persistently.

“But you must have some sort of a plan? You’re _Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch._ ”

Baz snorts at that and sits up, pushing Simon’s arm playfully with a slender finger. His finger finds hard muscle.

“I’ve not always got a plan.” Baz scoffs.

Simon’s brow furrows further.

“But aren’t you always planning? Plotting for the future? You have to have _dreams_.”

Now Baz is laughing lightly.

“Plotting? What kind of person do you think I am, Snow?”

Simon’s mouth is clenched, but Baz can see the laughter that he’s just barely managing to keep bottled.

“I don’t know! A prepared one!”

Then they’re both doubled over. There’s no one around to hear, so it’s loud and unyielding.

“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? Plotting.” Baz is saying.

Simon’s shrugging but grinning. Now he’s the one with leaves in his hair.

“You’ve got a smudge of dirt all across your cheek.” Baz says, and he’s smiling too. “Your left one.”

Simon tries unsuccessfully to wipe at his cheekbone.

“ _Other left_ , Snow.”

Simon dissolves into giggles and shaking shoulders.

“It’s been a long week.” Simon chokes out. Baz just nods.

They’re both sitting up, and the sun beats down on both of them, making the whole hollow seem gloriously luminescent and shimmery.

“You’ve still not got it.” Baz says. And he reaches his hand up to Simon Snow’s cheek, without thinking twice.

Simon’s skin is soft under his fingers, his cheekbone hard and Baz finds that his arm is shaking. He wipes the smudge of dirt away quickly, not daring to let his hand linger on Simon Snow’s cheek. Baz’s stomach is clenching and his heart is beating a mile a minute and _something in him gets the feeling that Simon Snow is feeling this too._

His first instinct is to pull away. So he does. His hand returns to his lap.

“There.” He says.

He clears his throat.

“I should be getting back.”

He says. Even though every part of him wants to stay here.

Stay here forever with the wind and the leaves, with the trees and the boy, his best friend, who makes him feel like he’s a match being struck in the darkest, darkest, night.

“I should too.”

Simon sighs, and it’s not a happy one. His shoulders start to hunch, and there’s nothing in the world that Baz wouldn’t give up to see his smile again. They sit in the night for a minute.

Two or three.

_Four minutes, wishing it could be forever._

 

Simon stands up, then Baz does. They face each other for a couple seconds more.

“Race you?” Baz says quietly.

And it’s dark, but he can see Simon’s face light up.

“Loser’s buying ice cream tomorrow.”

Baz is smirking. He knows he’s faster. Simon knows he’s faster. But it doesn’t matter.

Because he can still feel his youth in his veins, his freedom, his wildness. It’s back, even if it’s just for this moment, and he is going to beat the crap out of his best friend.

“One.” Simon says, “Two.”

“Three.”

And they are flinging legs and straining knees, gasping breaths and arms nearly being taken off while they try to avoid the trees and each other. It’s only a couple minutes back to the edge of the houses, and the white rows of two-stories show up faster than ever.

Baz is _so_ winning.

His feet are flying, arms pumping, but he can feel Simon right behind him.

But then he stops.

 

Someone is waiting for them.

Standing there straight, on the corner piece of sidewalk in front of the very last house, Simon’s house, is David Snow.

Baz’s chest is heaving from the running and there’s a significant turning over of his heart.

A _no._

_No, no, no._

Why is he outside, waiting? Why does he have to see them like this, see Simon happy? Why does he have to ruin this _last_ moment?

All of these thoughts take only a half of a second and by the other half, Baz finds himself falling over.

Something has slammed into him, pushing him to the ground. Something that’s panting and hot, and now it’s staring down at Baz with two glittering blue eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Some of the pressure on his limbs and chest leaves.

Simon’s raised himself above Baz on his hands, and he’s frozen.

He must know that his father is standing right there.

He must be terrified.

Baz shuts his eyes and feels his fists clench beside him. When he opens them again, Simon’s still staring at him.

His mouth is handing open, rose lipped and his hair is hanging over his face, curls splayed everywhere.

Baz immediately becomes aware of these things.

His head is near Baz’s head. Their ankles are brushing. His hips are near Baz’s hips, and his shirt hangs off of his waist, exposing his hips to the spring air.

Baz immediately becomes _very, very_ aware of these things.

The mole under Simon’s left eye. The heavy way he’s breathing so that his chest almost hits Baz’s when he inhales.

It takes a lot to pull himself away.

Baz sits up, then stands up, and that seems to unfreeze Simon.

“I won.” He says, but his voice is no longer happy. How can it be happy if David Snow is standing right there?

“What?”

Simon says, he looks a little dazed, and Baz can’t blame him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Baz says simply.

And he starts to walk away. He doesn’t give Simon a hug, like he wants to, doesn’t even dare to nudge his arm to try and give him some comfort.

Because David Snow still stands there, beckoning.

And he’s the one that Simon has to come home to, not Baz.

 

The walk home is lonely and the sun is completely disappeared over the horizon. Baz’s mind enjoys torturing him by replaying the last few minutes, replaying Simon’s face hanging inches from his.

It’s _agony._

Just friends,

 Just friends.

_Best friends._

Then why does he feel like Simon was about to kiss him?

Why does he feel like Simon wasn’t frozen because his father was there, that his eyes weren’t wide because David Snow had shown up?

_Would Simon Snow have kissed him?_

**Does he want Simon Snow, to kiss him?**

The immediate answer is no.

Yes.

Maybe.

_Definitely not._

Back to thinking about tawny skin, and bronze curls, and the way Simon’s chest looked when his shirt was hanging open which Baz shouldn’t have noticed but he did.

And then the answer is yes, and yes, and _yes._


	10. let go too soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! I might not be posting a new chapter for longer than usual because these next few days are hectic, but I promise the new chapters will come soon enough! Also, this is the last of the After chapters before we actually get to that part of the story. Now we'll just be sticking to the regular chronological order of things. Thank you all so much for your lovely comments, and for actually reading this?!  
> Apologies that this chapter is so short, but I've said all I want to give away about the After story, so you get a very very little glimpse of Simon.  
> Love,  
> Rosie

 

**_[ Maybe you were my blue moon,  
maybe I let go too soon. ]_ **

 

_How did I go so wrong?_

Albert asked him if anything was wrong this morning, and it was all Simon could do not to snap at him. He messed up about half of the recipes that he was given, but no one came to scold him. That made him even angrier.

He doesn’t want their pity. He’s just _so tired_.

Then he went home.

There was his father, in a pile on the living room floor. Simon went over and knelt just to check if he was still breathing. He didn’t know what kind of answer he wanted.

Now he’s lying in bed. The old radio is blaring, the speakers static, and Simon’s just waiting. He’s waiting and he’s waiting for that voice, the one that can bring him back to the land of the living. He’s waiting for his father to wake up and come upstairs to yell at him to _turn that fucking thing off_.

But it doesn’t happen. Some part of him is grateful. The rest of him is still bitter that _this_ is his life.

_Waking up,_

_Going to work,_

_Coming home,_

_Hurting,_

_Sleeping,_

_Repeating._

The violin on the radio is singing, and Baz is whispering the last of the lyrics-

_I wish you were here._

And Simon so does. He wishes Baz were still here.

It’s his fault Baz left, he’s almost certain of it now, but he wants him to come back. He wants nothing more.

He messed everything up, his complete fault,

Always his complete fault,

But he _needs_ his best friend.


	11. driving me wild

 

 _**[ 'Cause when you look like that** _  
_**I've never ever wanted to be so bad, oh** _  
_**It drives me wild** _  
  
_**You're driving me wild, wild, wild** _  
_**You're driving me wild, wild, wild** _  
_**You're driving me wild ]** _

 

It’s a long weekend, the best kind of weekend. Baz parks across the street from Simon’s house and walks up the pavement, ringing the doorbell then stepping back down a couple stairs, just to be safe. Just in case it’s not Simon who answers the door.

But it is.

The entryway is exposed to Baz, and there is Simon, rifling through his bags for something. He stops when Baz’s shoes enter his line of sight and he looks up, smile taking over his lips.

“Baz! Hi!”

He quickly goes back to rummaging through his duffel as Baz just stands, watching, and finally he pulls something out with a triumphant sweep of his arm. A pair of socks. That makes Baz smile. He slips them on over his bare feet, trying hilariously to balance but failing marvelously. Then he tries to get his shoes on and almost falls right into Baz.

But Baz is already moving away.

He’s dealt with being pushed over and pinned underneath Simon Snow once already, he’s not letting it happen again. He doesn’t know how much self-control he has anymore.

He waits as Simon Snow goes through everything he’s brought, trying to see if he’s forgotten anything.

“Are you ready yet?”

Simon grabs a jacket that he absolutely won’t need, it’s boiling to high heaven outside, and nods.

“I think so. I hope so.” He laughs, trying to shoulder all of his bags at once.

Baz grabs one from the floor and rolls his eyes.

“It’s just three days, Snow. You’ll be fine.”

They pile the luggage into the back of Baz’s parent’s car that they’re letting him borrow very graciously for this trip. Baz slips into the driver’s seat and Simon has trouble with getting the car door open, but eventually he slumps into the passenger side.

Then they’re off.

Well.

They get about five minutes away from the house before they have to go back because Simon’s forgotten his favorite Orioles cap that’s absolutely vital, and when they arrive they also find that he’s forgotten possibly everything else vital as well.

His wallet, his phone, his keys.

Baz snorts and Simon gives a laughing shrug. Then they’re _really_ off.

Simon Snow doesn’t usually have the keys to his house, to David Snow’s house. They mean that he’s able to come and go as he pleases. Baz is pretty damn sure that the only reason David Snow allowed Simon to come on this trip with him, is because David Snow is also leaving the city.

Maybe because Baz’s parents were there when they were planning the whole thing. That could do it.

The drive is not long, but they blast the music as loud as it will go. Without hurting Baz’s ears. He needs those. They switch between stations- classical, baroque, alternative, pop, and eventually Simon just plugs his phone in and puts a playlist on shuffle.

Simon bobs his head a bit to the beat, and he stares over at the driver’s side often. _Of course_ Baz notices. He begins to make more of an effort to not stare back.

_Concentrate on the road. Your parents will kill you if you smash up their car. So ignore Simon Snow._

It’s something that’s easier said than done.

“You excited?” Simon says, tapping his fingers on the dashboard.

Baz just smiles.

“Who do you think is going to win?” Simon asks.

He knows what Baz will say. So Baz says the opposite. Just to annoy him.

“The Bears had a really great season this year.” Baz states, simply.

And that’s enough to send Simon into a flurry of surprise.

“What?! Baz?! I thought you were with us! What are you saying? Have you seen the Orioles stats this year? Are you kidding me? They haven’t lost one game and now that Hammens is back-“

He’s rambling off statistics, flinging his arms all about, exclamation marks after his every word and it’s enough to make Baz have to try hard to contain his laughter. Simon notices. He gives Baz a shove to the side of the head.

“You twat. You knew that would get me like this. You complete idiot.”

Simon gestures to his flushed face and curls that are slightly more messed up than they already were. His hand comes up from the armrest and Baz watches a finger pull across Simon Snow’s bottom lip. Baz feels his cheeks warming and he has to look away.

When they enter the edge of town, Baz makes Simon pull out his phone to try and direct them onto the right roads to get them to the stadium. There are a lot of wrong turns. But they make it eventually.

This is why Baz made them leave extra early. He was just factoring in his best friend, who manages to make everyone two hours late.

It’s a struggle to find parking, so they have to walk a couple of minutes before they can even see the stadium down the road.

The streets are a clash of Christmas- red jerseys and green caps, crimson flags and emerald foam fingers. It takes them a long time to even get past the check in, and an even longer time to make their way up to their seats.

Baz hears Simon’s tiny gasp before he walks out into the expanse of the baseball stadium.

He feels his own eyes widen, feels his brain struggle to comprehend how a pitch and row upon row of stands can be _this huge_. Simon’s staring at him, he can tell, and the gaze burns his skin. He stares back.

“Isn’t it just,” Simon stops, “So. _Big_.”

Baz jostles Simon with his elbow, but he can’t help his grin.

“Let’s find our seats, we’re holding up the line.”

They sit down, and continue to stare at the expanse of green turf and thousands upon thousands of people. It all doesn’t seem any less enormous.

Baz is watching Simon’s shining blue eyes that match the blue sky overhead, his hand that’s draped casually over the arm rest dipping onto Baz’s side. The talking and chattering of the crowd is deafening already, and the game hasn’t even started.

Simon goes off to get popcorn and they eat it noisily while they wait for the players to come onto the pitch. Simon’s no good at saving it.

The game is unlike anything Simon’s ever seen. The pace of it, the speed, it seems so incredible and these players make it look so effortless. The Orioles are winning, of course, and Simon is yelling along with the crowd, watching the ball like his life depends on it. When they miss a play he’s on his feet and when Hammens makes a run for home, Simon’s rooting him on at the top of his lungs.

The game is in a stalemate towards the end, and every point is worth more than it’s ever been worth. Simon’s teeth are worrying away at his lip, and he looks over at Baz who’s forehead is creased. There’s the pitch,

There’s the run,

Simon’s frozen as he watches. _He’s going to make it, he’s going to make it, he’s going to make it._

Two seconds on the clock.

The player, Armstrong, is sliding home and Simon’s so elated, he’s going to make it, that he’s grabbing for anything he can hold on to and that anything happens to be Baz’s hand.

The touch is _fire_.

Simon’s so not trying to look at Baz, trying to notice on his unreadable features if he feels this too. This _burning_ between them. Baz’s hand is colder despite the afternoon heat and Simon feels the violinist calluses under his thumbs like he has many times before.

But it has never felt like this.

Like a wildfire has caught under his fingers, the flames licking up his arms and settling in his insides like hot coals.

He tries to ignore it. Simon gives himself completely to the cheering of the masses and the celebration of the victory of his favorite team. But he can’t _just_ ignore it.

He drops Baz’s hand.

Baz doesn’t look over at him. He just looks out on the stadium and Simon determines the music is too loud to try and talk over anyway.

 

It takes them a really long time to find the hotel. Even by Simon Snow standards.

It’s a tall one, ten floors at least. The reception is clean and nice, and they seem to be one of the only ones checking in so at least _that_ takes them little time. Baz barely listens to what the lady at the front desk is saying, and Simon’s beside him, so tired that he’s almost falling over.

They both practically tumble into the elevator. Simon’s still smiling and Baz just looks content. It was a good day.

It’s rare that they’ll have many more days like this. _Just them_.

Baz makes himself remember that he’s got to savor these weekends. These not so far from golden days won’t last forever. But he’s not got that to think of that now.

Right now, Simon Snow is nearly falling asleep against the elevator wall, his eyes drooping in their blue perfection. This is all he has to think about.

 

The elevator dings, signaling that they’ve arrived at their floor, and they both shuffle out into the hallway. They only get lost once before they find their room, number 361.

It’s nice.

When they walk in, everything’s in order and shinning clean. They organize their luggage and Baz pulls out everything he needs for the night, changing in the bathroom. He settles down in the desk chair, and grabs his book from its spot.

It is then when disaster strikes.

Because Baz is somewhere in between pages two hundred and four and two hundred and five, finger underneath the word he’s reading, and _just then-_

“I’m going to have a shower, okay?”

Simon’s got his pajamas on one arm, a towel on the other. Baz’s eyes have stalled in the middle of a sentence, and he doesn’t glance up from the book.

“Fine.” Baz says. His voice is _the model_ of indifference.

Simon shrugs happily but tiredly, slipping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

“I’ll only be a minute.”

 Baz hears the water start, and tries to go back to the story in front of him. Tries to consider how this young woman as found herself in this position, what hints the author has cleverly placed. He really, really, _really_ , tries not to imagine Simon Snow in the shower.

No bronze dripping curls, no water sliding smoothly over toned arms-

_Stop._

Back to the book.

Yes, the young woman in peril. The next sentence describes vividly the scenery and the situation, and Baz tries desperately to be interested.

 _Those eyes_ , his mind reminds him, and Baz almost yells out loud for it to just shut up.

_I do not have a crush on Simon Snow. I do not. I do not._

He’s such a liar.

 

Back to the book. Right. Read the goddamn book.

 

He’s managed to force himself through another whole page before he hears the water snap shut.

 

And out of the bathroom door comes Simon Snow, through a large cloud of steam, hair still dripping. As per usual, he hasn’t put a fucking shirt on and the white hotel towel hangs dauntingly low on Simon Snow’s fucking hips.

Baz can’t help the low whispered curse that slips from his lips, as he watches Simon’s lips, promptly hanging open and very, very, pink from the heat.

He can’t help Simon’s good hearing, either.

“Something wrong?” he asks Baz. And he’s staring now.

It’s _incinerating_.

“Oh nothing.” Baz is mumbling, and he never mumbles. “Just hit my foot on the desk.”

And Simon Snow starts coming closer, eyes concerned. _Jesus Christ_.

A bead of fucking shower water slides from Simon Snow’s edged jaw and lands on Baz’s wrist. Baz is immediately sent shaking his forearm to get the drop off, and Simon is staring at him again.

Baz just stands up as he feels his face flushing, and makes his way carefully around his shirtless best friend. It’s just then that he notices the second problem.

There, in the center of the room, is _the_ bed.

And that’s just it. There is _only_ one. One bed.

Simon’s back and changed into a t-shirt and long shorts, sitting on the edge of the one bed.

Baz is just standing and staring and wondering if Simon is thinking about this as much as he is.

_Of course not. There’s no big deal._

They are best friends. They’ve had millions of sleepovers. It _doesn’t_ matter.

Baz takes a deep gul of air, limbs unfreezing and he slowly makes his way over to the opposite side of the bed. Simon’s eyes are getting droopy again, and he sighs, inching back to slip under the covers. Baz doesn’t say anything.

Simon’s eyes are quickly closing and Baz is trying so hard to climb quietly into the bed. Simon’s already stealing the blankets. Baz finally settles on his side, purposefully facing away from the smaller body curled up beside him.

He can smell the hotel shampoo drifting off of Simon, along with the ordinary cinnamony scent that he’s somehow always had.

 

Think about something, _anything_ else.

 

But he can feel the heat of Simon’s body behind him, and his breath is the only sound in the dead quiet room.

He’s never going to get to sleep, is he?

 

“Is it okay if I turn the light off?” Baz says, hating the breathiness of his voice.

“Yeah.” Simon replies, just a tired sigh in the darkness as Baz clicks the button on the lamp.

Baz lets his eyes slip closed, feels the pillow against his cheek. “A good day?” he asks, a whisper.

“A good day.” Simon whispers back.

 

Then it’s quiet. Just the sound of rustling and breathing.

Baz feels something brush his foot and he doesn’t dare move as Simon’s ankle settles on top of his. He sighs, barely making a sound, the comfort of the touch mixing with the giddy buzzing feeling of Simon Snow touching him.

Then they’re both out like lights.

 

When Baz wakes up, he feels a bit strange. There’s something wedged beside his head, something laying over and around his waist, and a weight pressing on his hip, his thigh, his ankle. His eyes spring open immediately.

He’s facing the same way he was facing before. His hands next to his face, legs curled underneath him. There is a soft snoring at his ear.

The blankets are all on the floor, but he’s burning up, because _there_ , pressed snugly into his back, hand draped across Baz’s waist and leg draped over Baz’s leg, is _Simon Snow._

 

His curls tickle at the back of Baz’s neck, their limbs all tangled up, and his breath is burning hot against Baz’s collar.

He’s pulling Baz into his chest but somehow still completely asleep.

Baz doesn’t move.

He _can’t_ move.

 

All he can do, here, in Simon Snow’s arms, feeling their ankles rub,

with Simon’s soft sleepy murmurings in his ear,

with Simon’s hips pressing into him,

with Simon’s soft lips resting against his neck,

 _is just think_.

 

All he can do, while he lays with his best friend who’s blue eyes haunt his dreams, is just think about exactly how fucking screwed he is.

And it’s pretty absolutely fucking screwed if he had to say it.


	12. never ever wanted to be so bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last couple chapters have been quite fluffy you've probably noticed, but I thought we deserved a little happiness (well Simon and Baz do at least) before I start torturing people again. There is a lot more angst on the calendar do not worry at all. I've got it covered.

 

_**[ 'Cause when you look like that**_  
 _ **I've never ever wanted to be so bad, oh**_  
 _ **It drives me wild**_  
  
_**You're driving me wild, wild, wild**_  
 _ **You're driving me wild, wild, wild**_  
 _ **You're driving me wild ]**_

 

It’s another of those days. The clouds disappear, the light breeze blows. The sun hangs in the sky for an eternity and _doesn’t it just feel like this day could go on forever?_

Simon’s sitting beside him, below him on the ground, so Baz can see the top of his head. The log Baz is settled on is uncomfortable like it’s always been, his book in his lap. The sunlight filters into their little hideaway making everything splotchy.

They haven’t done much of anything today, and it’s just getting to be the afternoon.

Maybe they’ll go for ice cream. Maybe Simon will come over for supper and after he’ll sit curled up on Baz’s bed while Baz practices.

Maybe they’ll just stay here, in the forest, in their fort, where they can lie in silence, listening to each other’s comforting breath and Baz can try to work up the courage to take Simon’s cheek in his hand and kiss him softly.

Maybe they’ll just stay here forever.

Baz watches Simon turn a page, watch his eyes dart side to side under his dark eyelashes.

“How’s the book?” Simon asks, not turning his head.

Baz slightly panics because he sure as fuck has not been paying attention to what’s written in front of him, but rather the mole that peeks out on Simon’s shirt just barely underneath his collar.

“It’s good.” He says, praying that Simon won’t ask for any more details.

“Good.”

“What’s yours about?”

Simon’s turned to face him now, and Baz catches the slight widen of his eyes.

“Oh, it’s um- about this man and he, um, does this, hmm…”

Simon’s voice is light and breathless, and just for a second Baz considers that he might not be the only one who’s not been paying attention to his book.

“That’s very specific, Snow.”

Simon gives him a gentle swat, and the touch makes something explode in Baz’s chest, rather than annoying him.

“It’s not like I’m trying to remember! This is a novel study for school.”

Of course.

Yeah, Baz has definitely got to stop being so hopeful all the time. Simon’s just bored with his book, he’s not distracted because his best friend is sitting inches away. _Why would he be?_

 

They leave the trees because Simon can’t sit still any longer and pick up their bikes from their backyards. Simon’s is blue and Baz’s is red, and they’re practically the same model because they bought them the same year. When Baz had to have _everything_ that Simon had.

It seems stupid looking back, but it also makes Baz’s heart beat a little quicker.

So does Simon’s hand, sliding over his when he’s helping Baz find the bike locks.

It can’t possibly be on purpose, but Baz wishes that it was.

They spent the whole afternoon on wheels. The neighborhood isn’t that big, so there aren’t many places to go, but they visit all the old favorites.

Who knows if they’ll ever get the chance to do this again? What if Baz leaves after he graduates?

 

_What if he leaves?_

He could get a job in a big city far away from here, where he wouldn’t be different. Where he could play the violin as loud as he wanted, kiss whoever he wanted, be in a _whole other universe_.

But what would Simon think?

_Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter._

Baz reminds himself that even if he’s got a crush on Simon Snow:

a heart shattering wobbliness in his knees and a racing pulse in his neck that make a fool out of his mind,

nothing is ever going to come of it.

_But he’s still your best friend. He deserves something, doesn’t he?_

 

And then Baz is right back to square one.

He shoves the ideas out of his head.

He doesn’t have to think about that right now. All he has to think about is the boy on the bike in front of him, how the wind catches in his curls and the sun cradles them in its arms for so long that they turn golden.

_Simon Snow, how could I ever leave you?_

Baz petals harder to catch up to his best friend, seeing the smile immediately appear across Simon’s lips and curve his windblown cheeks when he notices Baz at his side.

“If you leave next year, I’ll lose my biking partner.” Simon says.

_How is he such a mind reader?_ Baz starts to smile, but it’s only half genuine.

“Your bellhop, your tutor-” Baz says, but he’s interrupted by Simon shoving his shoulder with a muscular arm.

It almost makes them completely crash.

Simon’s laughing loudly like he didn’t just almost injure them and Baz can’t help his own laughter from starting.

“Your fault.” Simon says, trying to shove at Baz again.

Baz snorts and avoids Simon’s hand, shoving him back. “It most definitely was not.”

Then they’re both laughing even harder but they can’t clutch at their stomachs or risk almost crashing again. So they stop for a minute, just to catch their breaths.

The sun beats down unyieldingly on top of them, making Baz wonder who’s fucking idea it was to going biking in the very heat of the afternoon _._ Simon’s flushed and his t-shirt is plastered to his skin with sweat, and it does _absolutely nothing_ to help Baz’s own body temperature.

Simon’s still laughing, hands on knees hunched over, breathing in soft gasps that Baz can most definitely not ignore. His stupid beautiful hair hangs in his stupid beautiful eyes, and just when he’s got his breathing under control, he looks up at Baz and bursts into laughter again.

 

_Simon Snow, how could I ever leave you?_

 

They have a race to Spotty’s and Baz lets Simon win.

Their usual table is taken, so they find a new one, next to the window where they can watch the sun finally set on the horizon. They order lemonades _,_ because you can’t go to Spotty’s and _not_ order lemonades _,_ and then relax back into the booth seats.

The air conditioning is heaven.

They have to wait a while for their chips. Simon folds his napkin into an aeroplane that doesn’t work what so ever, and Baz just crumples his into a ball to hit Simon on the nose.

The lemonade is always delicious.

Simon asks Baz about the math test, quizzing him on concepts even though Baz doesn’t need the practice. He gapes at how Baz’s glass has managed to retain most of the lemonade in it, even after it’s been _five whole minutes_. Simon’s got none left.

They stay in the restaurant for as long as they can.

Eventually, Baz’s father calls him and he has to regretfully walk out of the door to unlock his bike. Simon just watches him go, the smile on his lips drooping slightly. It disappears completely when Simon thinks Baz can’t see him anymore.

And then Baz has just got that image in his mind. Simon, alone in the booth. Eyes cast low, fiddling with his fingers, waiting for when he too has to return home. If you can call Simon’s home anything more than a prison.

Simon, being left behind. His silhouette in Baz’s rear view as he pulls away from Spotty’s.

 

_Simon Snow how could I ever leave you?_

 

It feels like a part of his insides has been torn clean off and all through supper he can think of nothing else.

All night,

All the next day.

 

_What if he leaves, but what if he doesn’t?_

 

And the same shinning eyes and easily earned smile haunt his every waking moment. They won’t go away.

Simon and Baz spend almost every day together, and _he’s got no time to think about any of this, but one late night while they’re back in the forest and Simon’s laughing at something witty Baz said about the stars above them-_

 And it just hits him.

 

This _isn’t_ going away. That feeling in his chest when Simon smiles, it’s _not_ disappearing. The blush of his skin at Simon’s gentle shoves, how Simon’s eyes send his heart sprinting, it is _never_ going to go away.

It’s always been there, and it’s never going away.

 

He’s in love with Simon Snow.

 

Completely.

 

_His laugh, his hands, his eyes, his jokes, his hair, his moles, his cluelessness, his arms, his happiness-_

 

He’s in love with Simon Snow. He’s _always_ been in love with Simon Snow.

He _always_ will be, in love with Simon Snow.


	13. night highs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short, but I just wanted to give a little Simon insight! The next few chapters are more eventful I promise <3 Love all you readers :) On a side note, it's my birthday! I'm sixteen which is kind of crazy... Anyways. Hope you enjoy this chapter anyways  
> -Rosie

 

 _**[ Running on the music** _  
_**And night highs** _  
_**But when the light's out** _  
_**It's me and you now, now ]** _

 

This is all he hears about anymore.

 

“Come straight home, son. Okay?”

“I’ve got work for you to do.” _When he doesn’t._

“We’re going to go down to the park and throw the ball around, so don’t make any plans.” _They don’t._

And when it’s late and David Snow is drunk, in between fists and shoves, he gets a-

“Stay away from that boy.”

“That son of a bitch, he’s nothing but fucking trouble.”

“Stay away from him.”

“He’d better stay away.”

He utters strings of insults that Simon doesn’t care to hear. He tries to tune them out. It’s not hard. The world is already spinning and he can already feel himself slipping away.

“If I see him with you one more time…”

David Snow is saying, mumbling curses. There’s a new pain bursting in Simon’s shoulder. The world flickers in and out of blackness like a worn out light bulb.

“I’ll kill him.”

 

Simon tries not to take it seriously. He can’t be serious. He _can’t_ be. Even so, he tries to avoid Baz for a day.

It’s impossible. Gray eyes are in Simon’s head. He keeps feeling the whisper of a callused hand touch his shoulder.

He only makes it to lunchtime.

Then he’s sitting down at the table on the exact opposite site of the cafeteria and Baz is immediately walking over.

His binder is tucked against his hip and his dark hair is tucked behind his ears. He’s smiling.

“Snow. I haven’t seen you all morning.”

Simon doesn’t say anything. He moves his plastic fork around his plate.

“You weren’t waiting and no one answered the door.” Baz continues.

Simon doesn’t dare look in his eyes. Because where Baz is a great liar, Simon is a terrible one.

“I- I was running late. Sorry if I held you up.”

Simon tries for a smile, but it falls off his lips halfway through the motion.

Baz’s eyebrows raise as he considers this.

“You aren’t avoiding me, are you?” Baz says.

Simon laughs out loud. _Too_ loud. _Jesus Christ._

Baz’s eyes narrow.

“Did we have any chemistry homework?” Simon says, hoping that he can change the subject.

Baz doesn’t answer for a second too long. He adjusts his collar with his free hand.

“No.” Baz says.

Simply.

Simon knows he’s still suspicious.

 

_My father wants to kill you._

He _will_ kill you.

You’re _different._

 

He wants to tell him, but Baz is smiling again, the rarity on his lips and Simon just _can’t_. He can never know, because what would he do?

Baz can’t do anything about this. So why ruin the grin that’s taking over his face as he meets Simon’s eyes?

He can’t. He _can’t_.

 

He doesn’t bother avoiding Baz the next day. There’s no point to it. As long as his father doesn’t see them together, they will be fine. He _can’t_ be serious.

David Snow doesn’t like Simon’s best friend but he’s not a murderer. He doesn’t hurt people.

Lies.

_Lies, lies, lies._

Simon’s got to stop lying to himself.

 

He spends his mornings, his afternoons with Baz. Sometimes he gives up worrying completely, and just spends the evenings with him too. But the nights are all his father's.

Mornings are soft smiles and soft shoulder bumps in the hallways. Afternoons are hot sun smothered classrooms, hot baseball practices, hot hands brushing. Evenings are lying on the patch of grass close to Baz’s house, ankles and knees lined up close, hands so close, heads almost touching each other.

There is nothing soft or hot or close about the nights.

His father’s hands are rough on his skin.

The basement is cold and it only makes everything hurt so much more.

David Snow’s eyes are glassy and Simon’s father is a million miles away.

 

One particular morning, when Simon’s tearing the sheets from his bruised legs, thinking of watercolour eyes and charcoal hair, he lets himself consider that his father _is_ being serious.

Simon can’t let anything happen to Baz.

He can’t let anything hurt him.

 

That day, he tries avoiding Baz again. It’s not as hard when he’s remembering the reason behind it. He’s got to protect him. He need not concentrate on anything else but this.

What if his father comes to the school to talk with one of the administrators, what if he sees them together?

He can’t risk it.

So he hides.

He skips ball practice, just to make sure he can leave in time to avoid Baz bumping into him on the way out. He skips lunch. He takes a different route to class every time, and doesn’t bother attending the one class that Baz and he have together.

It’s hard.

But he’s convinced.

He’s not letting anything happen to Baz. If this is a test, to prove that he deserves this different boy with a smirk for a smile and skin like moonlight, he accepts it.

Baz is worth it.

Baz is worth _everything_.

Their friendship is the only thing that Simon really _has_ , and he's never letting go.


	14. want it all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took such a long time with this one guys- it's not that it takes me super long to actually write the chapter, just that I couldn't fit two hours of writing into any of the past couple of days! Thank you all so much for reading <3  
> -Rosie

 

 _**[ And my hopes, they are high, I must keep them small** _  
_**Though I try to resist I still want it all ]** _

 

Simon Snow has stopped ignoring him altogether. That is basically the only upside to Baz’s day.

He sees Simon in Chemistry. They sit together again at lunch.

It’s been a week since Simon started all this hiding from him, and all Baz can do is wonder.

 

_What has he done wrong?_

_Oh God, what has he done?_

_Why?_

_Is there a reason he deserves this silence?_

_Has Simon figured it out?_

_Has he started hating Baz because he knows that all Baz wants to do is take his waist in his hands and kiss him senseless?_

He can’t have. Simon Snow is not that observant. He just _isn’t_.

And Baz is good liar. If there’s anything he can put his confidence in, it is that.

 

So what is it then?

 

He thinks for a second.

 

There’s only one name that crosses Baz mind.

_David Snow._

Things must be getting worse at home. God.

 

_What is he doing to you?_

_My love._

_Why don’t you tell me?_

 

So he doesn’t pester Simon, doesn’t work hard to get an answer out of him. He just lets him be.

And Simon doesn’t talk.

They sit in silence and Baz doesn’t dare reach for his hand. Or bump his shoulder.

He gets a shrug for an answer most times.

Simon doesn’t call him to ask him to hang out.

His blue eyes are bored and dull.

He’s not running away from Baz anymore, but Baz isn’t sure he likes this alternative.

Silence. Just _silence_. Along with his head screaming in his every moment and the end of every day when he’s lying in bed wondering when he’s getting his best friend back-

_Why?_

Simon hopes that what he’s doing is the right thing.

He can’t be sure, but he can hope.

He pretends he can’t see the way Baz rakes his hands through his dark hair exasperatedly, pretends not to listen to Baz talk on, even when Simon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t wait for him at all, barely acknowledges that Baz even exists and it goes against everything that every cell in his body feels.

He shouldn’t be doing this.

Not after Baz has been here, forever. He’s held Simon’s hand, bumped his shoulder, wrestled him, hugged him when he’s been falling apart, _forever_.

Baz doesn’t deserve this. Not from Simon, his best friend. Not from anyone.

But Simon has to do it. If he can do nothing else, he _has_ to do this.

He needs to protect Baz, and even though this is hurting him, Simon can never let his father touch Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

He promised. He _promised_ that he would never let Baz be alone in all this.

And he’s broken that promise, but he’s trying to keep the more important one.

The one that says that they’ll always protect each other, always have each other’s backs.

Distancing himself from Baz is so terribly hard.

He wonders sometimes if it would be less painful, if he just did it all at once. Like ripping off a band aid. Just started completely avoiding Baz, stopped talking to him completely- well he’s already partially doing that.

It hurts.

Seeing the disappointment in his best friend’s face breaks something in him. Especially since he knows that he’s the one causing it.

But the thought of what his father will do, is _all_ that matters.

 

 

It’s another early morning, Wednesday, Baz thinks. He’s got no reason to remember what day it is now that Simon doesn’t walk home from school with him.

They don’t walk together in the mornings either.

Baz doesn’t see Simon until they have class together, just before lunch. Simon’s reaction to him is the same as always.

Distant eyes. Slouching posture. Picking at his fingernails. Not looking at Baz until he _absolutely has to_.

The bell rings, and they walk to the Cafeteria. Simon doesn’t wait for Baz to get his books together, he just leaves, and Baz only sees him again when he’s walking up to their table.

Simon’s looking across the room at someone. There’s an enormous amount of chatter coming from that end, giggling and laughing.

“Hey.” Baz says softly.

Simon does answer, only sits down and continues staring.

 

And then Baz sees _her_.

There’s a new girl.

She’s surrounded by people, at the center of the conversation.

And she’s _perfect_.

She’s got hair that’s a waterfall of spotless blonde, eyes that are warm chocolate and rich coffee brown.

Simon’s _staring_ at her.

And the girl is fucking staring back.

 

She’s wearing white- looking more like an angel than a human being, and when she smiles, it’s like some one’s turned the lights up brighter.

She’s already got a bunch of other girls hanging onto her every word and Baz can hear the whispers around the cafeteria, even if he can’t hear what the girl herself is saying.

 

_‘Agatha Wellbelove’_

_‘She moved from California’_

_‘Look at her shoes’_

_‘No really’_

_‘Look at her’_

 

She’s still staring at Simon, but her gaze shifts to Baz with time. He doesn’t smile back.

But it’s so hard, not to give in.

Her stare is like being looked upon by a goddess, and her grin like a gift to everyone she bestows it upon.

And she looks back to Simon. And there’s a smile on Simon’s lips now.

But Baz is not the one who put it there.

 

They stare at each other enough that people start to whisper. The whole of the room is abuzz with students wondering, chattering, _realizing_.

_How perfect would they be together?_

The two suns. Pale and beautiful and perfect.

Agatha Wellbelove and Simon Snow. _Everyone_ can see how perfect they are for each other.

Simon’s just smiling like an idiot as she looks away, unaware that everyone is looking at him, looking at _them_ and just making the connection. His face is more alive than Baz has seen it ever since this whole avoiding thing all started and it’s just _too much_.

Even _he_ can see it.

Gareth comes over to their table, grinning at Simon.

“Boy, she stared at you for hours.” He says, nudging Simon cheekily with a gentle shoulder.

Simon just nods, blushing.

Simon Snow is blushing, rose lips gaping at Agatha Wellbelove across the room.

Baz stands up, not bothering with goodbyes, to take his binder and get out of here. Simon doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy talking to Rhys now, blue eyes lit up once again.

 

“You have to talk to her.” Gareth’s saying in Simon’s ear, but Simon’s watching Baz walk away.

Simon shrugs.

Across the cafeteria, he watches as Agatha Wellbelove brushes goldy waves out of her eyes.

She’s _so_ perfect. And she’s everything he could possibly need right now.

She could _solve_ everything.

 

Baz walks home alone. He knows that Simon has ball practice, but he doesn’t bother to watch today. Simon doesn’t care, does he?

He doesn't know anything. Baz knows absolutely nothing.

Why, why, why?

He can’t be sure why Simon’s like this anymore.

If it was really just his father giving him an extra worse time, would he _really_ have smiled like that at Agatha Wellbelove? Would he _really_ have held her gaze as everyone in the school watched?

Would he really have not noticed when Baz left?

Baz doesn’t know Simon anymore. _This_ Simon.

When he gets to his house, he goes straight upstairs to tear apart the horse hair on his bow and the songs out of his strings.

Screw the neighbors.

Screw this neighborhood where no one can say what they are actually feeling.

Screw _everything._

Baz is losing his best friend and since he doesn’t know why, there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

 

Simon waits until after the bell rings to approach her. She’s standing at her locker, alone for once, with her white shirt swept off her one shoulder and her binder against her thigh.

It hits Simon again, how beautiful she is. He walks over slowly, brushing the locker next to hers with his arm.

“Hi.” He says

She looks up, brown eyes widening. Her blonde hair avalanches to rest on the front of her shoulders again.

“Oh, hi.” She says.

Her nail polish is pastel pink, her lips almost the same shade. All at once he wonders what it would be like to kiss her.

“I’m Simon.” He says, rubbing his arm.

He’s gotten better at the talking, but not _that_ better.

“I know.” She says, not at all like it’s a weird thing to say.

Because of course she _knows_. Simon believes her. Beautiful people are hard not to believe.

“I’m Agatha.” She says, smiling. “It’s nice to meet you Simon.”

He runs a hand through his curls, adjusting the binder against his hip.

“It’s nice to meet you too.”

And is it ever. It is so nice to meet her.

She shuts her locker in one graceful, fluid motion and blinks slowly with daintily long eyelashes.

_Once._

_Twice._

“I’ve got to get to equestrian practice, but I’ll see you around?”

Simon watches her take two long strides so she’s closer than before.

She smells like vanilla and heaven, completely different from Baz’s cedar and bergamot, and she’s so close.

Simon nods, because he doesn’t have many words left.

Her grin widens, like he’s told a joke and she starts to walk away, hair flouncing down her back. She gives a small wave and pushes the door open, leaving a trail of sunlight behind her.

 

Simon walks home, and for once, he doesn’t worry about Baz or his father.

He just thinks about her, Agatha Wellbelove, with home in her eyes and the cure for everything in her laugh.

She could mean _everything_ to him. She could be the _cure_ for his everything.

 


	15. heart's mistaken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry I took so long! This chapter was not coming easy and I've been pretty busy as of late, but finally here we are!

 

**_[ All my time is wasted_ **   
**_Feeling like my heart's mistaken, oh ]_ **

 

Something’s changed.

Something has definitely changed.

Another week has passed, and every day, Simon seems more and more distant. Baz watches him watching Agatha Wellbelove who’s looking back at Simon with that seductive yet innocent smile and he hates it.

Simon doesn’t call, doesn’t drop by Baz’s house to hit his window with pebbles just because.

They speak few words, Simon’s are mostly mumbles, while Baz struggles to think of what to say.

_Why are you like this? I don’t understand._

He doesn’t say anything he wants to say.

Simon just looks away, distracted or bored. He used to remain completely still, and incline his head to let Baz know that he was listening. _Just because_.

Can this be counted as friendship anymore?

Saying hello and goodbye, ignoring and being ignored without so much as a warning?

But Baz can’t make himself say anything.

Because what if there is something really wrong? What if David Snow is even more of a problem than Baz thought and Baz will completely destroy their friendship, whatever remains of it, if he asks Simon about it?

But what makes Agatha free of it? Why?

Why, why, why?

There isn’t a day that passes where Baz’s head doesn’t ache from overthinking it.

All of it.

The ignoring.

The bruises.

But also the way that Simon’s eyes are still beautifully unremarkable in their beautifully unremarkable way.

The way they slept in the hotel. The way Simon looked so peaceful, like none of these things mattered.

He can’t rid his mind of those thoughts either.

 

He doesn’t fully comprehend how far Simon Snow has drifted away from him until Sunday.

Baz makes sure to put on the cleanest suit he has, and helps Mordelia zip up her dress. It’s raining so Baz is sent into the basement in search of umbrellas. It rarely rains in Watford, so it makes Baz slightly happy to see the droplets on the window panes.

The twins are utterly amazed. They have their noses pressed to the glass until Daphne is shouting, and she barely manages to keep them from ruining their dresses when they head to the car.

They drive the three streets to where the gathering is being held tonight, and Baz immediately notices the Snow’s car where it sits by the curb. David Snow has always been early to these things. Simon has even told Baz, when he was tired, eyelids closed, that his father likes to help set everything up just to further the act that he’s not a terrible person who drinks his sorrows away every night.

Baz brushes his hands across the front of his pants and straightens his tie. Everything is as usual.

The party appears normal enough when the Pitches walk in together. Baz doesn’t immediately spot Simon, but he does spot someone.

Agatha Wellbelove is standing in the center of the room, a parent on either side of her, a crowd around them. And there is David Snow, up in front, shaking her hand and smiling like someone has just presented him with a million dollars.

He steps back, and there is his son. Simon was hidden by David Snow’s form, but now Baz has a clear view of him. He’s smiling too.

He looks Baz’s way and Baz is prepared to smile, he’s sure that Simon’s seen him, but Simon’s gaze just passes through him as if he’s invisible.

Not even a hint of recognition shows in the blue of his eyes. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wave. He goes back to talking with Agatha, who’s wearing white again, a dress this time, with lace and beads that make her look even more like a fantasy than she already does.

Baz just turns away.

Someone tries to rope him into a conversation, but he ignores them, heading for the table of drinks.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t fucking know.

It seems like Simon’s made up his mind again, so maybe he’ll start avoiding Baz completely. Maybe they won’t even try to have lunch together now. Maybe this time it’ll last more than a week. Maybe this time it’ll last forever.

Why?

He can’t.

Don’t. Think about it.

Deep breath, and get over it.

But his teeth clench and he feels his breath go shaky. This isn’t pain that you can just wish away with a second of determination.

 

This is Baz’s best friend. The hopeless love of his sorry excuse for a life.

 

He can’t just let this slide. He needs to talk to Simon. He needs to know. Why?

And then after that, maybe, he can try and move on.

He makes himself wait for a minute.

He lasts five whole minutes before Simon’s laugh that’s not wholly real but not completely fake either makes something in him shatter and he’s walking toward him before he can think about what he’s doing.

He always thinks so much about what he’s doing.

Screw it.

Screw everything.

This is the boy he _loves_.

 

Simon’s three quarters of the way to getting Agatha Wellbelove’s phone number when he sees something coming towards them in his peripheral. Something with long limbs and a face that’s all sharp angles. Shock of jet black waves, eyes like hurricane clouds.

Baz is beside Simon quickly and Agatha is looking at him,

Simon’s father is looking at them.

Everything in Simon is set on red alert.

_I promised myself I wouldn’t let anything happen to you._

Baz’s eyes are all wrong and everything in the room seems dimmer to Simon because of it. Baz’s posture is awful compared to what it’s always been, even at his mother’s funeral. His shoulders are caving in slightly, and his arm is drawing so close to Simon’s, that Simon has to take a step back.

“Why are you ignoring me?” Baz says, voice low, but dreadfully pained. “What is your problem?”

Simon makes himself calm, pretending that he couldn’t care less that Baz is hurting and that he is the one who is causing it.

But he won’t let it be any worse.

He can’t let his father see them together anymore.

He has to get away from Baz. Baz has to get away from him and Agatha.

So when Baz tries to take his hand, a movement that is so unsubtle and so not his best friend, Simon takes an even bigger step away. He looks at Agatha apologetically, like he’s sorry they’ve been interrupted, then he takes a long, slow, second to work up the courage to say what he’s about to say.

“You.”

Simon watches Baz’s form crumple more than he’s ever seen it.

“Leave me alone, please.” Simon says, with a lift to his chin and a smile that’s a perfect imitation of his father’s.

Something new crosses Baz’s face before he expertly hides it.

And then Baz just turns away.

Simon’s eyes drift to his father, who’s stopped staring in his direction, who’s hands have uncurled themselves from their inconspicuous fists. Agatha starts talking to him again, but Simon’s barely paying attention. He can’t take his eyes off of this boy he’s just ruined.

And saved.

 

Baz’s steps start to feel more and more heavy as he makes his way to the bathroom.

He won’t cry, he knows that. The only time he’s ever cried was at his mother’s funeral, just a tear, and he promised that he wouldn’t do that again.

So he just sits with his back against the wall across from the bathtub.

Trying not to think about Simon at this moment, is exactly impossible. He tells himself not to think about it, which only makes him think about it even more, which leads him to almost throw up.

Everything in his head is so loud, and Simon’s face is always there, with Agatha Wellbelove at his side like everyone knows she should be.

He sits and sits and sits.

 

And then, after a while, it just stops.

It all sort of numbs to a small ache at the base of his skull and he’s able to go back down to the dining room and pretend like his heart hasn’t just broken apart.

He drifts aimlessly.

The chatter of people is endless and makes his mind even more numb. He can no longer find Agatha Wellbelove and Simon Snow in the crowd, but he doesn’t wonder where they’ve gotten to. He just stands and lets the world go on around him.

 

After a while, he leaves. The lock on the back door isn’t easy to figure out and soon he’s out into the rain. He doesn’t care if anyone notices he’s gone. The only person who would have noticed was Simon Snow, and that’s no longer a running concern.

There is mud everywhere, but for once, Baz couldn’t care less about dirtying his shoes. He just lets the droplets slide down his cheeks and through his hair and tries not to think about anything.

It works for quite a long time.

Then he walks into the backyard and there they are.

The teenagers of the suburb. A bunch of small groups, drinks in hand, rain drenched clothes, and in the center of it all, pale skin and fair hair.

The rain doesn’t seem to touch Simon Snow, nor does it touch Agatha Wellbelove. It doesn’t dare.

They’re talking and Baz is trying to stay far far away, but he can’t seem to take his eyes off of them. Simon’s smiling like he’s always smiled at Baz and Agatha shoves playfully at his shoulder and Baz just can’t move.

He can’t look at anything else.

Simon Snow holding Agatha Wellbelove’s perfect and lovely hands with his own, the sunlight shining out of their hair as the rain bounces harmlessly off of their auras.

Simon’s said something funny, and the world goes quieter to listen to Agatha Wellbelove’s perfect laugh. It’s melodic and catchy and light.

Not like Baz’s deep and snorty chuckle.

_Jesus Christ_. Of all the things to be jealous of.

He can’t even find the energy to laugh at himself.

He hates himself.

 

He watches Simon Snow laugh again as he’s taking Agatha Wellbelove’s cheek in his hand, and his rose lips drop to touch hers.

Baz’s heart hits the floor.

He wishes he could close his eyes.

 

Her hands move to Simon’s neck, into his bronze curls, and the jealously slams into Baz like a tidal wave. He presses his back against the fence to try to find some support as his heart caves in a little more.

He still can’t take his eyes off Simon’s flushed cheeks and his hands around Agatha Wellbelove’s waist.

All he can do is watch.

All he can do is wish, that it is him Simon kisses.

 

After all that they’ve been through, doesn’t he deserve more than this?

Does he deserve this rain, and hurt, and the loss of the one person he thought would always be there for him?

Maybe he does.

Of course he does.

He’s pathetic.

So utterly pathetic.

 

There’s an unspoken celebration going on in the backyard now. Simon Snow and Agatha Wellbelove are kissing, and all is as it should be.

It makes him sicker. The numbness disappears for a second, to turn his head back into hurting, to make him want to throw up again. His hands shake and his breathing stutters.

People still go on cheering and wolf whistling. The ‘soulmates’ go on kissing.

The pain goes on.

He watches them break apart, smiling. Simon takes her hand effortlessly, such a natural thing, and they head back inside, stopping to get congratulated and smiled at by everyone on the patio.

Baz stays still by the fence.

The rain goes on.

He’s just about to leave the backyard to walk home when there’s a shove to his back. And he’s falling into the wet grass.

 

When he looks up, there are catcalls, a few snickers. Six figures loom over top of him, and it takes so much effort to steel his expression.

He can’t deal with this right now.

The six that stand in front of him, he barely knows by name. He knows their faces.

He knows that they don’t like him.

Not that they have a reason. But he’s different. And everyone knows that. It’s reason enough. So here they are.

“I saw the way you looked at him,” one says. “Simon Snow.”

“Such a loser.”

“Faggot.”

“So fucking homo.”

Someone shoves him with the toe of their shoe, but the rain blurs Baz’s vision and he’s vaguely aware that there’s no possible way he can fight back.

“You loveeee him, don’t you?”

_Yes._

He gets another kick to his legs, his shoulder.

“Fucker.”

Gravel digs into his neck and he’s wet all over now.

“Stand up, you punk. Piece of shit.”

There’s a hand grabbing his collar and hoisting him so he’s standing, almost choking. They push him up against the fence.

“People like you don’t belong here.”

“Cocksucker.”

“You don’t belong here, you hear me?” a boy snarls.

_I know._

_I know I don’t._

There’s a blow to Baz’s gut, and he curls in on himself, torso screaming with hurt.

Someone knocks his head back into the fence boards, and Baz’s vision goes a bit fuzzier. There are so many insults hitting his ears he can’t keep track, more punches hitting every part of him. And no one will come to his rescue.

He tries to weakly swat away a hand, but his arms feel as strong as string.

So he just lets the blows keep coming.

All he can think about is Simon.

 

His Simon who dealt with this every night, who never got any help. His Simon, with the deep bruises that he never complained about.

And it makes Baz hate himself so much more.

He deserves this beating. He deserves to realize just how much it hurts.

As he feels the hits get heavier, all he can think about is how he didn’t help Simon at all.

 

Baz begins to count the number of times he’s seen and ignored bruises on his best friend’s skin and stops when he can bear it no longer.

This is what Simon went through all the time. This was his normal.

And Baz had done absolutely nothing about it, because he was just too fucking afraid of David Snow.

Pathetic.

So utterly pathetic.

 

They finish with Baz after awhile and he manages to pull himself to his feet to start walking home. He makes himself run, because he will leave no evidence that this happened for his parents to discover.

He sits in the shower.

He stumbles into bed.

And again, there is but one thing on his mind.

Maybe it’s right that Simon has abandoned him, because Baz sure as fuck has never deserved him.

Pathetic.

So utterly pathetic.


	16. only fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they'll be some short ones in here guys- just a note :) I'll try and post two at a time if that's the case! love you all

 

_**[ Only fools fall for you, only fools** _   
_**Only fools do what I do, only fools fall ]  
** _

 

The walk to school is lonely, lonelier than it has ever felt before. There is still a bruise on Baz’s thigh where he got kicked, purples and blues on his torso and his arms.

Class is a monotone. The teacher drones on and on, and for once Baz couldn’t care less about paying attention. He tries not to think about Simon Snow sitting just behind him, about Agatha Wellbelove in front of him, whose golden curls are draped down her seat and brush the edges of Baz’s desk.

He sees them everywhere. He can’t stop seeing them everywhere.

He sits alone in the cafeteria, just watching their table, them laughing and shoving each other like Baz used to. Eventually Dev and Niall, two boys who Baz slightly knows, take to eating with him. They don’t talk much, but Baz appreciates their company even if it’s just to show Simon that he’s not completely alone without him.

He is.

He so is.

At home, he misses supper often. Daphne worries but he just tells her that he’s feeling ill and she usually leaves him alone. Later, he tears open his case to have the strings against his fingers and the bow in his hands. He gets a moment of remembering the night Simon Snow came to his concert, and how it _felt-_

It makes everything that much worse.

His days are spent staring at Simon and Agatha’s held hands, looking at how perfectly they fit together and trying to make his heart understand that it’s over.

His nights are tearing horrible violin melodies out of himself, making his fingers bleed and his horsehair break.

He wishes it was different but it doesn’t make him feel any better.

 


	17. what do i do now

 

_**[ So what do I do now?** _   
_**I don't keep love around ]  
** _

 

Baz knows that something is wrong when he shuts his locker. He slings his violin case over his shoulder, fixes his hair, takes a deep breath. The hallway isn’t bustling as it usually is but Baz isn’t fazed by it. He knows that his conversation with Mrs. Greene, the music teacher, took longer than usual today. She wants to help Baz set up an audition tape.

He’s not sure if he cares anymore.

The pain seems less today, replaced by the edge of anger and resentment that Baz can’t help.

He slams the doors on his way out, feeling the wind hit his face as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. It's not long before he can discern the footsteps echoing just a second too late behind his.

He doesn't turn around. Not yet. But he lifts one hand to adjust the violin strap on his shoulder and discreetly looks behind him. The same six people loom a couple meters back, not bothering to hide the fact that they're following him. They wear matching sneers and smirks.

Baz feels the fear rise in his chest before he hates it enough to make it disappear off of his features.

The anger of the day continues to burn. He can't do much about it.

He turns down the next street, trying to keep himself from running. He knows that they'll be worse with him this time. He won't simply be walking away with a few nicks and bruises.

They probably watched him today, saw how he looked at Simon in the cafeteria the few times he couldn't help it.

Could they tell that it hurt him? Can they tell that it all hurts him?

Everything in this place, this stupid neighborhood is related to Simon. There isn't a place they haven't explored together. Baz is just trying to escape him, and Simon Snow is _everywhere._

He walked by that one tree they climbed this morning on the way to school, talked with the teacher in the music room where Simon had patiently listened to his every practice.

(Still like a statue, sometimes with his left foot tapping, eyes closed.) Baz liked to admire him then, because he wasn't looking and the music brought something different to his smile.

Even if Baz was having a shitty day- always, _always_ , there would be Simon and there would be something new to do. Some nook of the cursed place to figure out, some tree to climb, ice cream to eat, smile to share.

Not anymore.

 

Baz's hands become fists without his ordering them to. And he stops on the path, he turns to face his pursuers.

That earns a few jeers, and taunts, mocking his brave stance, the lift of his head that he's practiced in the mirror so many times. It says, _I'm not afraid of you. You should be afraid of me._ But these people don't seem to care.

They are strong, the boys muscular from sports and working on their cars, the girls strong and athletic. Baz, with his slim shoulders, is weak.

They are six. He is one.

It makes him think of Simon's arms, how strong he would be here. Baz's knight in shining armor, how he would rescue Baz and they'd steal away to some rooftop to laugh at these bullies and drink bad iced tea and _smile_.

But Baz is one.

 

_Promise? Promise. I promise._

What are promises called when they are broken?

What _are_ promises, when they are broken?

_Forget it. Just forget about it._

 

The anger surges in him more. If Simon was going to break the promise, he shouldn't have made it in the first place.

 

"What's up, fag?" the boy says, waltzing forward.

He tries to shove Baz backwards into the wall of the building, but Baz uses the little of his strength and the lot of his anger to only stumble a step.

"Ah, so that's how this is going to be." The boy smiles, all teeth.

 

Baz says nothing.

The rest of the group is crowding them.

 

The insults and names hit his ears and he tries to ignore them. Some slip through his barrier to hit his chest like bullets. His anger is put out to let him slip into self-hate. They jab at him about Agatha, about his new leather jacket that has a touch too much glitter on the pocket to be acceptable.

 

Amidst the chaos, amidst a different boy shoving his wrists and kicking at his legs, Baz sees something. He's pressed up against the building, but there, across the street, stands familiar cheekbones.

Familiar shoes, hands, eyes.

 

There is David Snow, inside a shop talking to the cashier, and there outside, looking towards the alley are bronze curls.

Familiar eyes meet Baz's for the first time in weeks.

He can discern nothing in them.

 

A girl swings a punch across Baz's jaw.

"Too pretty for a boy, you are."

 

When Baz struggles and turns his head back, his hands needing to touch the skin just hit but caught against the brick with firm palms, he sees Simon watching.

The blue of his eyes still show nothing.

Baz has to stop and wonder when he developed that skill.

He hates it. He hates it so much.

Because there was supposed to always be Simon Snow, who couldn't control his emotions, and said things that were idiotic not practiced, and who blushed, and laughed, and cried without reservation. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

 

Baz gets a blow to the nose. Simon's mouth twitches.

 

David Snow walks casually out of the shop and places a hand on the back of Simon's neck. He doesn't see Baz, struggling.

Simon lags behind his father, face looking blank.

 

Baz wonders for a second if Simon is actually going to do something. The street between them seems huger and huger as Simon gets pulled away. The promise more broken with every step. Then Simon just turns away, his expression unchanging.

 

Baz didn't know that it could hurt any more.

That he could feel any more betrayed. But _here he is_.

 

The anger in him revs its engines. The insults come faster, someone slams his elbow into the wall and

 

_that's it._

 

He's done with this.

 

He flexes his hands, puts them into fists, not bothering to think about if this is the right way to hit someone or if this is the right stance. He thrashes out, and some of the people let go of him.

His knuckles connect with skin and bone. He feels them split.

 Someone lands a blow on his back, someone steps his foot hard into the pavement.

A girl kicks him down.

 

"Still not pretty enough for Simon Snow though."

She tears the violin from his back.

 

Baz’s mouth forms silent words, eyebrows raising, trying to escape the grasp of the boy who captures his wrists.

Then he remembers himself. He has to look calm, he can’t let them see that they’re breaking him. But the girl is fumbling with the latches on the black case, pulling away the velvet cover, tearing the instrument out of its holding-

Her face is a horrible terror of smirking smug destruction as she holds the violin by its neck away from her body and starts removing her fingers from it one by one.

_No_

Baz wants to say

_No, no, no no nononono_

But he chokes on the words.

 

“Drop it,” one boy yells.

“Just smash it,” the boy behind Baz is saying.

But the girl takes one look at Baz, and he feels so exposed. He knows she knows that this means so, so much to him. She slips her hand into her purse, takes out one slender pink pocketknife, and places it against the E string.

Baz’s heart lurches. The violin makes a horrible scream as she cuts the string, nails on a chalkboard. The sound of something dying. And all Baz can think about is how many concerts he’s played on that string, how many songs he’s composed.

And he just explodes.

 

He needs to get to his violin so he tears at the fingers that bind his hands, he shoves, he watches as the girl raises the pocket knife again, slitting another string (the D string, his fucking favorite) and carves a line down the smooth wood of the instrument’s back.

Baz just makes it to her, and punches her square in the jaw.

The victory is the shortest lived.

His hand explodes in pain, fire running red hot in his thumb. He’s not the one who’s supposed to be hurting here. But yet his left thumb sits at an awkward angle, screaming that it shouldn’t be bent this way.

The girl clutches her chin, but she’s seen his expression and she’s laughing.

“No one’s ever taught you how to properly throw a punch, have they prince?”

She spits the words.

 

Baz’s breathing is shallow and shaky. The group closes around him again. A boy shoves his violin into his chest. Someone else laughs, he’s called another name.

Baz holds his broken stringed violin, with his broken thumb as he watches them walk away.

This is not the end of it.

The urge to sink to his knees is overwhelming, the urge to cry.

They will be back.

 

He runs his right thumb over the cut in the violin. It’s nothing that a bit of sanding can’t fix.

He presses the instrument to his chest, feeling like it’s the only thing that’s holding him up. It’s the only thing he’s got, and they’ve managed to take it away.

They didn’t take away Simon, no, Baz managed to do that himself. But they’ve taken everything else.

His dignity.

His strength.

What remained of his happiness.

His violin.

He looks at it again, and he thinks. They are so similar, the instrument and him. Strings cut, so they can no longer sing. Broken things.

Perfect to look at, smooth and glossy and nicely edged.

 

Broken but you would never know it.


	18. lost its beat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look at that it's the eighteenth chapter and i'm posting it on the eighteenth of june  
> haha  
> ha  
> i am so tired   
> (and very apologetic yet again about my horrible hiatus)

 

_**[ Play it back then press rewind** _   
_**To when you traced your fingers drew my spine** _   
_**Lost its beat and so I find** _   
_**I starve my heart of touch and time ]  
** _

 

He plays the last note.

It echoes through his fingers, the finality of it. Across the silencing room, there’s a faint click of a mouse. It’s small, but to him it sounds like the click of the lock on a prison cell door. There is no going back. No opting out.

He has just laid down his best attempt to a recording machine and there are no redoes. He’s given his soul.

He knows it’s not good enough. He wonders if they can tell through the melody that he’s broken. Probably.

They’re not going to accept someone broken.

The realization shatters him.

He hunches, closes a hand over the white tape still on his left thumb. He remembers too late that there are people watching and he can’t afford to break his imagine right now.

His breathing shallows anyways, his arms shaking against the will of his mind.

“Are you alright?”

Mrs. Greene’s voice comes to Baz gently, a nudge out of his closed eyes. He presses his lips together, and manages to nod quickly, manages to look her in the eye and say

“Oh I’m perfectly fine. Just a slight headache.”

_I’m drained. I’m so empty. That song was absolutely the last thing I had to give._

His newly restrung violin feels heavy in his hands. The microphone in front of his mouth like a tether, the last thing holding his bones up.

Mrs. Greene smiles at him, closing the computer. Baz smiles back.

“We’re all set!” she says, cheerfully.

She comes closer, and Baz has to try harder to hide the trembling in his fingers.

“I’m so very proud of you, Baz.”

He can’t meet her eyes.

“I don’t have a doubt in the world that they will accept your track.”

Why does everyone have to be so sure of him, so expecting him to be perfect? What has he done to deserve the push of a thousand misconceptions on his weak shoulders?

_I’m not who you think I am._ He wants to scream. _I’m not me anymore. I’m not okay._

He thinks about Simon, not bothering to try and stop himself from doing it. Why does he have to be the weak one, the half complete life in the relationship? The one who depends so greatly on the other and crumples as they leave him behind?

So unsure and unwilling and he’s just unnecessary isn’t he?

No one is depending on him. He’s got no friends, a family that moves on without him. He’s got a start of something with a music company.

Nobody gets it.

Simon would get it.

There’s nobody.

_I’m scared. I’m so terrified. After everything I’ve worked for, I’m still so scared._

He packs his violin into his case, bids Mrs. Greene a goodbye. The hallways are empty again and his locker seems to creak extra loudly as he removes his backpack and jacket.

It’s raining. Very appropriately.

He can’t not be reminded of fair hair, and rose lips on rose lips. Opposite to Simon Snow, the rain drenches Baz so everything sticks to him, his hair plasters to his forehead. It just unloads on him.

Unlike Simon, with his sun catching curls and ocean eyes, Baz felt every drop of water hit his skin. There are just some people made for light, and Baz has always known he is not one of them.

When he was still at Simon’s side, he could pretend that he belonged. He could almost imagine that he was one of those people, who captured the world with their smiles. But not anymore.

Baz was made for the rain. And he will never forget it again.

 

Simon still hasn’t gotten used to standing next to Agatha Wellbelove. It’s hard to believe that he ever will.

Her hand is small and smooth in his. They talk to everyone, always smiling. Agatha is always smiling.

His life has managed to not feel like his life anymore, most of the time. It’s all glossy. They eat lunch outside of school with all of their new friends, hang out after classes, throw parties that are loud and unyielding. And it’s all so good.

So off.

Simon’s not sure whether everything feels wrong because it is, or simply because he hasn’t been happy like this ever before. He doesn’t think about it. He tries not to think about anything.

It’s just not worth it.

He’s done everything he can, everything as right as he can. Everything is as right as it’s supposed to be, just as predicted, planned. There is no point in thinking about how it could have gone differently, or how it will go in the future. This is just what it is.

He ignores the black hole that often appears in his chest. It steals his breath, replaces it with solid anxiety, hatred, despair.

Baz.

Eventually the black hole fades to a smaller one, and for the time being, it can be forgotten.

He clutches Agatha’s fingers tighter.

He goes to practice, Agatha often comes to watch. It’s nice having her there. Because it can become her voice rooting for him, not a deeper, lost one. Her fair hair and warm eyes watching him from the bench, not black hair and sharp gray ones.

But then he goes home, he tries to study. And he can’t get the smug, deep voice out of his head. It recites his spelling words, directs him through geometry, pauses every so often to tell him teasingly how idiotic he is.

Later, his father comes home.

They eat in the quiet of the kitchen.

Some days are better than others. There is no more talk of Baz.

If Simon had to say it, he’d say that his father looked happier.

No.

Calmer.

A dangerous monster put back to an unsteady sleep.

He’s not a monster.

A jailor.

He’s not a jailor.

His father.

He’s just Simon’s father.

There are days when Simon is ready for it, the hits. He can detect it in the air, the way his father stumbles and kicks a bottle on the floor. Most days they do come.

But then there are days when the doorbell rings.

His father’s eyes brighten. He stands from his chair and goes to open it. Agatha steps in from the porch, lovely hair draping her shoulders, head turning to look for Simon. She hugs him chastely, finds his hand quickly. She doesn’t know anything about the bruises, but somehow she always manages to show up at the right time.

She slides into the chair between Simon and his father.

She asks him about his day. Her hand finds his knee.

She makes his father laugh in the house for the first time in years.

Everything still feels so wrong to Simon. But he doesn’t hurt. Agatha becomes one of the things that he and his father talk about over supper. How she is, how nice she is.

Simon knows she’s nice. So does everyone.

His heart aches and aches and aches, but his skin feels no blows. Agatha touches his cheek and her ability to change everything, make everything better (wrong) (but so much better) flows through his veins and erases everything else.

He sees the white bandages on a thumb, bruised cheeks across the classroom.

He hears crying violin melodies after school when he walks through the hallways.

But Agatha becomes his cure. And everything in him leaves to make room for her.


	19. wasn't never ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look it's chapter 19 going up on the 19th what  
> (MAJOR APOLOGY TO ALL OF YOU LOVELY PEOPLE FOR THE MAJOR LEAVE OF ABSENCE)  
> (i swear i'll post more often as soon as the wifi in my house gets set up)

 

_**[ Yeah, we knew from the beginning** _   
_**That this wasn't never ending** _   
_**Shouldn't stay too long** _   
_**'Cause we're both too young** _   
_**To give into forever ]** _

 

When Simon wakes up, he just knows. This day is not a day, it is a feeling. It makes his breath go cold, sinks into his bones as the clock chimes midnight, ghosts a hug around his shoulders. He wants to scream, feeling a long dead hand ruffle his hair. All at once, all he can do is remember.

He silences his stupid alarm clock, closes his eyes again.

He can almost hear her voice, drifting through the wall to reassure him that everything will be okay. But it’s already so not okay. And there’s nothing to be done.

Something shatters downstairs, making Simon jump, but he already knows what it is.

Father.

“ _Listen to your father, Simon” “Let him take good care of you”_

A ghost hand smooths his cheek, a real tear falling down after it.

_“Take care of each other” “Promise me”_

But they haven’t, have they.

Are there no promises in his life that Simon can keep?

He crushes his sheets in his hands, squints his eyes shut against the storm that is ravaging his mind.

And still he makes the promises. Always.

Because Simon has learned, learned that there are things that must be said, promises that must be made, even if they are destined to be broken. To make people happy, to grant an only final wish to a person on their death bed. How could you refuse?

He couldn’t.

With himself:

_“You’re fine.”_

With Baz:

_“We’re in this together. I promise.”_

With her:

_“Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.”_

Lies and lies and lies. Simon’s just a liar- just like his father.

When he pulls himself from the bed and to the bathroom, he can’t look his reflection in the eyes. Purple blossoms around his shirt collar, there’s a welt on the side of his thigh. He watches his hands tremble, unable to look up. Because his hair is curls and his eyes are blue and he looks-

Just like his father.

_“I promise. Always. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, please.”_

The room was just them. The beeping of machines, the white, white, walls. Her skin was nearly as pale as their colour.

Simon had been crying then too. They had all been. Three sets of salt water eyes, blue and blue and blue. A family. And then not.

He didn’t just lose her on that day, he lost both of them.

There’s another shatter downstairs, a slam, a stumble.

_“Promise me, you will take care.” “Promise me, Simon.”_

_“Promise, promise, I promise.” “I love you.”_

He’s staring at the ceiling, watching the pictures play through his mind. Blond hair. Broad, strong, shoulders. Flowy dresses. Her laugh like magic, not of this world. Her scones, her hands, her eyes that match his own. Matched his own.

There are loud and louder noises coming from downstairs, and they make Simon press his face into his palms. Too much, it’s all too much. He’s tearing at his forehead, his curls, because _she’s gone. She’s still gone, still gone, she’s gone._ His knees hit his chest, fingernails biting into the skin on the back of his neck.

Mother.

Mom, _mom._

More slams, more noise.

Coming from the kitchen.

Noise.

Noise in his head, leaking into his room, leaking into his heart. Stop.

Stop.

She’s gone, still gone.

Quiet. Quiet, please just shut up.

_“It’s all your damn fault.”_

_No. No please-_

Then he’s sobbing. Chest heaving, shaking arms and legs. He can barely breathe.

But it’s okay. She doesn’t breathe anymore, so why should he?

He hears stomping footsteps, the door flies back on its hinges.

His father’s eyes are red. His hands are bleeding. He doesn’t say anything.

For a long time, Simon just stares at his father, who stares at nothing. Then he leaves as quickly as he had come.

They never talk about this.

Why do they never talk about this?

Her name has become a curse, the unspeakable. He wishes he would just say her name. Acknowledge that she meant something to them, to him. She’s gone. She’s never coming back.

Just say it.

Because until then, they will never be over her death. They can never accept it. Especially not today.

Mother. Mom. I miss you. I love you so much.

 

Ever since the audition tape got sent in, Baz has been unable to sit still. His hands tap restlessly on his knees, move ruthlessly through his hair twice every minute. He can’t not move. He’s like Simon-

Or like the Simon he used to know. The one who now sits half a cafeteria away (but it feels like worlds), the one who used to be his months ago (but it feels like years).

The conversations hum around them, the sound of shoes on tile and books against arms. It’s just another day. Simon’s laughing at a joke while Baz takes a sip of water, trying to smother the sob that’s forming at the back of his throat.

_I miss you._

Agatha holds his hand across their laps. Neither of them look Baz’s way.

Baz just watches, unable to look away or tear his thoughts from everything he lost when he lost Simon.

Dev, beside him, clears his throat. Baz shakes a bit, cursing himself as he looks over.

“I apologize. Could you repeat that?”

Dev raises an eyebrow, but it’s more sympathetic than irritated.

“I asked if you were walking home with us tonight.”

Baz takes a second too long to register this. He’s caught in watching a split second of something flash through Simon Snow’s eyes. Simon’s beautiful freckled hands trapped in Agatha’s porcelain fingers.

“I-I don’t think so.” He stutters. He never stutters.

Dev nods.

“Okay. We’ll catch you tomorrow then.”

Baz just nods back. His mind drifts to the audition tape but he stops himself before he can fall into that black hole. Instead he asks himself why he’s going to let himself watch Simon’s baseball practice.

Why is he daring? Using one hurt to cancel another? He can’t find a reason.

But he’s too exhausted to fight with himself today.

When most of the cafeteria has cleared, he walks out the hallway door. He takes an inconspicuous spot on the metal bleaches. The clouds are dipping low over the pitch.

The team is warming up, throwing balls far across the stretch of dirt. He watches their arms, the rhythms of their movements, not unlike music. He can see Agatha, a couple stands down from him, several sections away. Her fair hair waves in the slight breeze and her eyes are intent on Simon.

Simon, who is firing the ball back at his partner, Gareth, harder and slightly farther than he can catch.

Baz can’t be sure, but he thinks Simon’s shoulders are slumping. It could be a trick of the light.

His blue eyes are shining.

No. He can’t be hurt.

He’s happy. He’s proven that, at least.

Baz looks over to Agatha again, sees the tightness of her mouth and the tension in her posture. She’s noticed it too. Simon fires the ball again, gritting his teeth. His eyes look even brighter and wetter.

Baz can only wonder what ever could be wrong.

Simon keeps firing the ball harder, looking like he might fling his arm out of its socket, his eyes becoming shinier, and the hurt on his features becoming more pronounced. Everyone is noticing. Coach Mac doesn’t blow the whistle as to not call attention to himself but Baz sees him moving towards Simon. He places one huge hand across Simon’s shoulder and everything in Simon freezes.

Baz sees Simon’s mouth twitch. His giveaway.

Coach Mac starts talking to him, and Baz can’t hear what they’re saying but he can guess. Simon’s face is completely devoid of the anger and frustration of the last minute, his eyes not showing much of anything.

Coach Mac pats him gently on the back, his face indicating that he doesn’t know exactly what to do in the present situation. Simon’s hands are shaking, Baz can notice, even though Simon’s half a field away. He wonders what Simon is thinking. He wishes he knew.

He wishes he could have the privilege of having Simon by his side again. Of being Simon’s.

It’s hard not to laugh at himself.

Who is he kidding?

He is still completely, utterly and absolutely belonging to Simon Snow. Nothing has changed.

Coach Mac is saying, Baz guesses, that Simon should take a break. And Baz can see Simon trying to take the request lightly, but his nose wrinkles and he folds in on himself a bit.

_What’s wrong?_

Baz wants to say.

_What’s hurting you?_

He knows. He damn well knows.

_Do you miss me?_

Such a selfish question.

But even more, he wants to jump up, run out into the field and force Simon to sit down. Can’t he see that he needs a rest? _Coach Mac is trying to help you, he is, I promise. Just let him help you. Take a two minute break. Even that short of a time will help you. I promise._

But what are promises worth these days?

What could be wrong, what could be this wrong? Simon’s never let his hurt show on his face like this, never been this obvious, why-

And then, it dawns on him.

In one fell swoop.

Today is April 12th.

The day Lucy Snow died.

He watches the surprise on everyone’s faces as Simon flings his glove to the ground. He’s walking off of the pitch (good), looking like he’s trying not to run.

Looking like he’s trying not to cry.

He’s out the gate and Agatha is already up and following him, moving faster than Baz ever thought she could. She’s at his side and Baz is still watching them.

Agatha’s putting her hand on his arm, and Simon’s just shaking, then shaking her off. His face is so pained when Baz catches the glimpse of it that he can barely breathe.

He’s sitting there, watching them talk. Agatha-animatedly, touching him gently like he’s breakable. Simon- not meeting her eyes, turning away from her touches, frowning.

Baz still remembers the funeral. Everything that day was gray. The clouds had decided to show up for the occasion too, the sky matching the headstones. Simon had been wearing gray. Simon Snow looks lovely in a gray suit.

Baz watches Agatha now, getting frustrated. Simon’s pushing her away with his words though Baz can’t hear what he’s saying, and then he’s running.

Agatha’s calling after him, voice ringing out, but Simon is gone.

Baz closes his eyes.

The days were supposed to be getting better.

But they just seem to be getting more bearable.

 

Maybe one day, he’ll be over Simon Snow.

But it’s not any day soon.


	20. the stars are falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorta semi back! hi!  
> so i know the last chapter was kind of shitty, but i hope to fix a lot of this when i edit all the story, eventually. sigh. i've never been good with plot planning and making sure there's enough emotion to be believable, so i'm sorry that i went kind of overboard on the angst- it shall be fixed, evetually, and i'm definitely keeping most of it. thanks for the helpful comments and critiques though, i really appreciate all you guys do :) <3  
> on a side note- i have a writing camp this week fuck yes

 

_**[ But the truth is the stars are falling, ma** _   
_**And the wolves are out c-calling, ma** _   
_**And my home has never felt this far ]** _

 

It’s hard to sleep. Baz is thinking about all the things he’s done and all the things he should’ve done and all the things he has to do. Mostly he’s thinking about Simon. The way that Simon looked running out of the baseball pitch, pushing Agatha Wellbelove away, pushing everyone away.

His clock reads 2:31am. He stuffs his face back into his pillow, hoping that sleep will hit him soon but doubting it. He’s got one of the songs he’s been writing, in his head, the one that goes-

_I’ve tried everything, I can swear it over lost time, but I just can’t seem to make you mine._

He almost thinks he’s dreamt the tap on his window. He’s in such a haze.

But no. It’s there. The sound fires again, a pip, just a peck.

Immediately, he’s jerking awake, _because it can’t be, it cannot be-_

But there’s another one, a pebble hitting the glass. The world tilts a bit, and Baz thinks that he definitely must be dreaming.

Another plink against the pane.

Baz doesn’t even bother to put a shirt on, or slip on his socks, or open the window, he’s rushing down the stairs. He can’t think to be quiet about it. Because there is only one person who throws pebbles at his windowpane.

The floorboards are creaking and he’s sure he’s waking up the whole neighborhood, but he can’t stop his feet from flying faster and faster until he’s flipped the porch light on and he’s got his hand on the doorknob.

His hands are freezing, and he’s regretting not slipping a shirt on, but he twists the handle and he throws the door open. And there is everything.

It’s dark as pitch except for the yellow beam of light from the house that’s catching in Simon Snow’s hair.

Baz’s fist clenches.

Simon doesn’t look up.

Baz takes a step out onto the landing.

Simon’s hands are shaking.

Baz feels a shiver down his spine, it’s cold.

Simon’s wearing a white t-shirt, gray pyjama bottoms. The yellow light is still catching in his bronzy curls and it’s making the dozens of fresh bruises on Simon Snow’s skin stand out even more.

Baz takes another step forward.

Simon doesn’t look up.

There is a deep, deep purple splotch standing out on Simon’s jaw and it’s making Baz want to throw up.

He doesn’t say anything.

Simon doesn’t say anything.

Baz takes the smallest step closer.

Simon looks up.

His eyes are red and shining. Baz has only seen him cry once. The blue of his eyes is so dull, Baz can’t hold his stare or else-

God, he wants to kiss him.

Now is not the time, not the time at fucking all, but he wants to kiss him.

The night is so dark around them, the darkness of all the sleeping houses making the seconds they stand there feel like hours.

Simon’s staring, and there’s a tear that’s sloping down his cheek and Baz wants to catch it.

The crow sitting on the lamppost at the end of the street, caws, and Baz watches Simon’s hand tremble.

Simon’s staring and Baz’s heart is breaking and then Simon Snow is in his arms.

He’s got his face pressed to Baz’s shoulder and his hands are curling up Baz’s back. His hair is everywhere and his eyes are wet and he’s shuddering. Baz’s arms are immediately around him. Holding him up while the stars seem to be falling down around them.

Baz doesn’t say anything.

Simon doesn’t say anything.

Simon’s breath is coming in short gasps, and Baz pulls him in tighter. It’s like nothing has changed, and all at once Baz starts to feel like if he holds Simon Snow tight enough, if Simon’s hand clenches in Baz’s shirt and they just stay pressed together for a few minutes, that everything might be okay.

The air is silent except for the crickets and the smallest of Simon’s sniffs as he’s trying to keep himself together, trying not to let it all go. Baz then has a hand on the back of Simon’s neck, cradling him in the dark.

It’s impossible, not to feel the weight of everything bearing down on their shoulders, but maybe, if just for tonight, they can stand under it together and bear it without having it feel like it will crush them.

It’s dark, and suddenly Simon’s detaching himself from Baz. His eyes are still extremely wet, he’s shaking all over, and Baz is walking back inside, beckoning Simon to follow.

They’re up the stairs, quiet but for their breathing, and Baz doesn’t hesitate to climb back into bed. Simon’s staring at him, and Baz is staring back at his bruises. The bed is warm and Simon is still shivering, and Baz is quickly climbing back out of bed and taking a hold of Simon’s arm.

They aren’t speaking. They aren’t speaking because they don’t want to have to be buried under all the things they’ve said and haven’t said and the moments they haven’t shared over the past months, it’s just so much easier to be quiet. It’s just so much easier for Baz to pull Simon into his bed, and make sure that he’s covered in blankets, make sure his tears are dried.

Baz knows that he should have expected this. He should have expected David Snow to be worse and worse to Simon, all leading up to this day, when Simon’s mother had died and everything had started to fray around the edges.

David Snow’s obsessiveness, his need to be in control of everything, especially his son, the only one he had left- had gone over the edge.

It had always surprised Baz, how strong Simon Snow was. How he came to school hiding secrets and bruises every day, how he came to school even though it was the anniversary of his mother’s death and he could probably think of nothing else.

But this Simon, the Simon who lies beside him, crying silently onto Baz’s pillow, stomach raising and falling with heavy breathing against Baz’s forearm which was resting protectively across Simon’s side,

This Simon was the Simon who had been too brave.

This was the Simon who had been forced to be a paper doll and had never allowed himself to just cry.

For a boy so bad at keeping secrets, so bad at lying, so bad at being anything but genuine and true and oblivious to any form of deceit, he had been so good.

Baz hadn’t seen it. How deep these hurts truly ran.

And now he thinks he hates himself, more than he ever has. But Simon Snow, the still shaking Simon Snow, ‘s breathing has calmed. He’s twined blankets around his form, curled his hands around Baz’s neck and arms and chest and it doesn’t appear to Baz like he intends to move them.

It’s silent for a long time.

Baz makes his eyes close, making sure that his hand is sitting protectively over the boy who sleeps next to him, the other palm clasped firmly in Simon’s, Simon’s head in the crook of Baz’s collarbone and shoulder.

He can remember that night, it seems so long ago now, when they had this same position at Sunday dinner. After that, maybe a couple weeks, when Simon threw him up against the wall, playing. Years before, when they wrestled at the beach- at the concert when everything was unshakeable. He wonders now, if Simon’s head on his shoulder means anything.

If it’s just a hand thrust out after falling from a cliff, a plea for help, a need for a friend or-

He can’t think about it now. He doesn’t need to think about now. All that matters, that ever has mattered, is that Simon’s head is on his shoulder and everything is going to be all right.

It’s silent, and Baz is sure that Simon’s asleep.

But then there are lips at his ear and a voice so quiet that Baz isn’t sure he hasn’t imagined it.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know I ignored you, I’m sorry.”

“I’m so sorry.”

There are wet drops falling on Baz’s skin and Baz just clutches Simon tighter.

“I forgive you.”

Simon’s shaking returns and he starts to pull away- but Baz won’t let him.

“I’ve really messed up. The one good thing- “

Simon doesn’t finish and Baz doesn’t know what to assume. He hopes that Simon can’t feel the pulse racing in his wrist.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know. It’s so hard. And you and her and him and I don’t know what to do-“

He trembles harder.

Baz just shifts, until their foreheads are almost touching.

(It’s so dark, he can barely see, no one will be able to see)

And he makes Simon look at him, makes him see the ‘okay’ in his eyes.

“It’s okay.” He whispers.

Their foreheads touch.

(Baz doubts they will remember this by morning. How the stars looked, how Simon’s lips are right there)

“It’s going to be alright, love.”


	21. two halves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol guys, i'm absolutely so sorry.  
> like i went on hiatus for what was it, almost 4 months?! that's not okay.  
> anyways!! regardless, i am back now, and i intend to finish.  
> i appreciate the wonderful lot of you that are still here and that continue to read even though i am downright SHITTY at updating <3 i love you all to bits,  
> i hope this chapter doesn't fall too flat since i'm terribly out of practice.  
> love,  
> rosie

__

_**[ And we take jokes way too far** _   
_**'Cause sometimes living's too hard** _   
_**We're like two halves of one heart** _   
_**We are, we are, we are ]** _

 

It’s so the same.

Simon meets Baz at the corner, bumping his shoulder and getting his curls in Baz’s eyes. They walk to school together every morning, even though Simon is usually late. Like he always has been.

They eat lunch together, Simon chewing loudly, Baz back to dictating spelling words. Simon cracks bad jokes and Baz tries not to laugh but he usually loses. Then Simon starts laughing too, and he gives Baz that look, all shinning eyes, white teeth and rosy cheeks.

Baz can feel it hitting him like a drug, gushing warmth all throughout his body like getting injected with sunlight. Simon Snow is a sun.

A sun,

And a son,

A star that manages to keep glimmering even when the hostile night is ever present.

 

At the end of the day, Simon waits by Baz’s locker, a smile spreading his lips, fingers tapping endlessly against his thighs and his binder. Someone passes and Simon’s instantly waving at them, almost dropping his books before they slide out of his arms one by one.

Baz closes his eyes for a second, feeling his own smile hit his lips, unable to hold it back.

It is like someone has pressed rewind on the last five months, erasing everything and overthrowing all importance of those months when Simon and he had not spoken. They didn’t seem to matter anymore.

As Baz’s father would say- “It had only been a minor setback.”

Everything is normal.

 

Today, Baz shuts his locker and the metal groans. He sighs, seeing that his phone is seriously low on power as it always seems to be. Static buzzes and the tone sounds as the secretary announces something like ‘volleyball practice is starting in the gymnasium in five minuets’, then fizzes out.

Baz casts a sideways glance at the senior girls’ volleyball team making their way across to the gym. It’s not hard to mistake the swinging of a golden ponytail, right in the center of it all.

Everything isn’t totally back to normal.

Agatha.

But there’s not much he can do, and he prefers not to actively think about it, because he already thinks about it enough, not trying to.

It bothers him. Of course, it bothers him. It more than bothers him.

But there’s nothing to be done, and there’s nothing he would do to risk Simon leaving him again. He doesn’t think he would survive that.

 

The hallways clear out so quickly after classes these days, now there’s not one other student or teacher but Simon in sight.

Simon, leaning against the lockers, meets Baz’s eyes. The thoughts that go through Baz’s head are anything but good. There is no one around, and Simon Snow is standing right in front of him with skin that is getting tanned as the sun comes out more and the mole beneath his left eye.

He can’t be thinking these things. He shouldn’t be.

The way the muscles in Simon’s arms are taught and sinewy, the way his ankles are crossed and he leans that lean better than anyone Baz has ever met (before he falls over). And his lips are sort of gathered up in a smirk, like one Baz usually wears, and there’s nothing he wants to do more than surge forward and crush it off of his face.

How would Simon’s hair feel clenched in between his fingers? How would his mouth feel, on Baz’s mouth, on Baz’s neck, on everywhere- anywhere, Baz would give anything for Simon’s lips to just graze any part of him? He would give anything just to have his own lips touch Simon’s skin, just for a moment-

 

“Got everything?” Simon asks, shaking Baz awake from his daydream. His blue eyes match the sky outside. It really is almost summer.

Then Baz scoffs, considering punching Simon gently in the shoulder before deciding against it.

It takes him a second to formulate a comeback. He’s still imagining Simon’s head on his shoulder, his skin tingles in remembering the outline of Simon’s body on his.

“Pardon me, I’m not the one who once forgot his lunch every day for two straight weeks last year.”

Simon just rolls his eyes.

 

It breaks Baz’s heart a bit. In a good way.

It’s good to see him like this. So good.

 

After that night, neither of them had gone to school the next day.

In the morning, Daphne had knocked, and for once, Baz had been so asleep that he hadn’t told her not to come in. He woke up as soon as she was standing at the foot of his bed.

Simon’s head was tucked into the crook of Baz’s neck, his warm breath heating Baz’s always cold skin, the ringlets of his hair tickling and teasing.

He had fallen asleep right on top of Baz, like the exhaustion had just managed to finally sink into the very last of his bones, making him topple over like a house of cards. Every one of his pieces collapsed, as did the walls that he had built until nothing shone out of him but utter fatigue and desperation.

Baz just left him.

His hip bone was digging into Baz’s stomach and his fingers kept clenching and unclenching in Baz’s shirt, but there was nothing Baz could have minded less.

Daphne just looked at the two of them, met Baz’s eyes. She smiled, and then she nodded, and then she left. When Baz woke up again, there were two mugs of cold coffee and two plates of toast sitting on his desk. The door was closed.

Simon sighed, and Baz knew he wasn’t going back to sleep, but he didn’t move. It was the least he could do.

He could tell that the food was getting colder and colder, but here was Simon Snow, back on top of him, mumbling something about cherries and paperclips and sandwiches. It was hard not to laugh in that moment. That somehow they had ended up back here. Sleeping in the same bed, sharing small smiles, like nothing had ever changed, and time had never passed.

Baz just let Simon sleep.

He wondered what the truth was, why Simon had left him, why they hadn’t talked for so long, the real reason. But then, after a while, with Simon’s chest rising and falling and the pebble that Simon had thrown at Baz’s window that he was somehow still clutching, growing warm in his hand, Simon- clutching at Baz’s side and making him warmer, Baz found that he didn’t care.

It was alright.

Simon’s pulse beat under Baz’s fingers, calloused, that somehow found themselves against the nape of Simon’s smooth neck.

Simon Snow was alive, he was alive and alive, and the pounding of his heart was a rhythm that Baz wanted to do nothing more but capture in a thousand songs.

 

After school, if Simon doesn’t have practice- ‘they made championships, they’re next week, they’re going to wipe the floor with the other team’ (Baz has gotten all the updates), they head to the forest and nestle in the trees to read and study because it’s only just getting to be blistering hot outside.

They stay for a while, until one too many mosquitos gets tangled in the web of Simon’s curls and Baz finds himself spending too much time staring at the tawny muscle bulging in Simon’s arm so they both stand up at the same time and decide that it’s time to leave.

They walk home with backpacks heavier than mountains. The teachers have piled on the homework and Simon complains, even though he knows Baz doesn’t mind. They pass the usual scenery- the beach entrance, Spotty’s, and Baz has to wonder how many more times he will glance at these places because it’s almost over.

The four years have almost come to pass.

They pass the rows of graduation plaques and pictures in the hallways at school and Baz’s heart leaps to remember that that will be them, in under a month.

Freedom, his mind calls it, and his heart agrees.

 

If he leaves.

 

It’s almost time to make a decision, and his brain goes into a panic in seconds before he can calm himself down by telling himself he has still got a couple months.

Even then, what’s the rush, to leave? If he leaves?

Another part of him swells again, reminding him about how every second he spends in this place, how much it drains from his heart and his body and his mind- but he makes it stop.

 

“Baz?”

Simon’s staring at him. Oh wonderful. Baz feels his eyebrows raise before he can settle the look of unamusement back onto his features. He meets Simon’s eyes, which are oozing concern, their blue matching the sky dipping into the ocean beside them.

“Yeah?” Baz says, and he scolds himself for being just a touch too breathless.

He has to take a few extra steps to catch up to Simon’s stride, even though- Aleister Crowley- he’s taller than Simon, therefore his legs should be longer. Somehow though, Simon’s still leading him, and it gives him a stunning view of the long arch of Simon’s pale neck, a wisp of his hair that his one hand keeps reaching up to touch.

After a couple more steps, he seems to notice that Baz is still a few inches behind him and he stops, just for a moment, to make sure that they are side by side.

“Okay?” he asks and his fingertips reach up to hit Baz’s shoulder.

They linger.

The soft crescents of his nails slide over the fabric of Baz’s shirt and the touch is lightning.

Baz feels every muscle in his body simultaneously tense and melt. This is definitely not the first time that Simon has touched him, it’s not even close to the most intimate.

But it _is._

Because here they are, outside, in the open, in the bright, bright sun, on Baz’s street, where anyone could see them, where there are no excuses, explanations and Simon is touching his arm for no apparent reason at all. Baz feels like if Simon were to talk to him right now, he’d have trouble forming a coherent sentence but Simon just smiles.

He lets his hand drop, still beaming like a golden retriever puppy, before he whirls on his heel and they start walking again.

Baz still feels the imprint of Simon’s fingertips like someone has branded his skin, like someone has taken the sun and seared on his shoulder that he belongs to this boy.

His pulse hasn’t slowed down, and as he listens to Simon’s breathing once again beside him, it’s starting to dawn on him more and more, precisely just how much he is Simon’s. How there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it as his hands sweat like they never do when he’s soloing in front of a thousand people, and his stomach flutters, and he can’t seem to keep his never disorganized mind, straight.

In either sense of the word.

 

He’s got to _stop._

 

It’s only a minute or two before they’re at Baz’s front door, and Baz is letting them in because the door is locked and no one appears to be home.

They practically tumble through the front door as Simon gets his foot caught on the step and their bags go everywhere. Baz is groaning,

“Snowwwww.”

And Simon just laughs.

 

They hear faint footsteps, before Daphne comes into view, walking into the foyer from where she probably had been in the kitchen. She smiles too, and it takes years off of her face. Baz can see her hold back her laugh when she notices Simon, in his usual state of disarray. Simon just grins sheepishly.

She’s got a book under one arm, and is in her slippers. She looks tired, and Baz has to wonder if there something he hasn’t picked up on.

“Daphne.” He says, and her smile widens as her gaze rests on him, and her name hits her ears. “I didn’t know you were home already.”

She sighs, her face partly joking, partly exhausted. “Ah. Well, I took the day off. There’s a lot I’ve got to get done for this weekend.”

It takes him a second, but then Baz remembers. Sunday- it’s their turn to host.

He immediately wants to hug her, because her hair is a mess (it never is) and it looks like her hands are shaking a bit (possibly from writing so much, possibly from the amount of caffeine she’s consumed). He doesn’t know if that would be okay.

He’s never hugged her before.

So he just does his best, and smiles, and says,

“I’m sure it’s going to be wonderful.”

Simon pipes in, with a “I wouldn’t worry much, Mrs. Grimm. Your baking is the best.”

She smiles even more at that, and shifts the book to her hip.

“Why thank-you Simon,” she says, and Baz can tell that she means it. Daphne Grimm is the most genuine person he knows.

“I’ll be sure to let you be the first to know if I need any help with taste tests.”

She laughs quietly and Simon starts grinning. Baz almost has to close his eyes, the two of them are so light. He can’t help his own smile as Daphne glances over at him again.

“Well,” she says, “I’ll leave you boys alone. I’ve got plenty to do, hopefully Mordelia and your father will help me when they’re home though I’m doubtful.”

Baz snorts at the thought of his father kneading dough, or Mordelia decorating petit fours.

Daphne rolls her eyes a bit at him, before she turns to head back to the kitchen. Baz turns to Simon to find him already staring back, and with wordless communication they start to head up to Baz’s room.

 

Simon hefts his backpack onto the foot of Baz’s bead and climbs on after it. He unzips the main compartment and pulls his English notebook into his lap. They’d finished most of the homework in the woods, but Simon still had a few things to wrap up.

Baz, setting down his backpack on the floor next to his desk, heads instead for his violin case.

When he’s got it prepped, he turns the tuner on and the pulling of the strings fills the room. He thinks he can hear Simon humming to the tuning note and when he puts the shoulder rest to the crook of his neck and turns around, he can see that Simon is writing, but he is definitely listening.

Baz thought that there would never be a day he’d be nervous with his violin in his arms, but as he puts the bow to the string in the silence except for the scratching of Simon’s pencil, he feels butterflies rising in his gut. Just the thought that Simon, even though his eyes remain stuck to his paper, is listening, is starting to make his hands shake.

It's so odd and so unwarranted, but it's there and it won't leave.

He makes himself take a breath.

And then he begins to play his newest song.

 

His eyes close on instinct, but he also has to stop focusing, stop wondering what the expression on Simon’s face is like as his wrist moves and his fingers press earnestly.

Because this is a song about Simon, and Baz has no doubt in his mind, that Simon will be able to tell.

His ears pick up on when Simon’s pencil stalls mid-scrawl, the third note. He makes himself continue and as he continues, his body falls into the rhythm like playing is no different than blinking, no harder than feeling the song start to form on his lips.

He won’t let himself sing it yet.

 

The song itself is full of accidentals. Wrong notes both in the wrong and right places, parts that don’t, that shouldn’t fit together or work together at all, but that somehow meld in a certain way to create a melody that is all at once so perfect, but all at once so brutal.

When Baz slams the strings hard, he can both feel and see the bruises, the clashing notes enveloping his mind in remembering all the times he’s noticed the patches of blue and black and purple and yellow on Simon’s skin.

Then, after a second, a note will change, and the clash will become a chord that is altered and brokenly beautiful.

 

Near the end, it is all coming together. He can feel himself tracing all of the broken lines together, criss-crossing the harmonies and patterns until he hits the last chord, one that is pure sunlight. It rings out of the instrument and hangs in the air, long after Baz has lifted the horsehair from the strings like the moon hanging in the sky, long after the night is over.

He opens his eyes, and the air he had been holding releases from his lungs as he dares to turn his body, his hand around the neck of his violin, to face the boy sitting on his bed.

 

And Simon just looks shocked. His lips are parted slightly, and there’s a collection of waves hanging over one of his eyes, which are just starting at Baz, wide and blue.

 

And it feels like hours, where Baz doesn’t move and Simon barely blinks, but Baz suspects that it was merely seconds, before Simon’s mouth closes and he brushes the notebook off of his lap. He starts to get off the bed, and Baz is thinking about moving but then he finds that he can’t because Simon Snow’s gaze is cementing his legs in their place and pinning him to the bookshelf behind him.

 

Baz can only watch, instrument clutched in his frozen hands, as Simon takes three long strides towards him and it takes a moment for Baz to register that his arms have caught around Baz’s back and that his chest is pressed to Baz’s own.

The violin threatens to fall from his grasp, but his mind is on overload as Simon Snow has wrapped him with warm hands and shoulders, some of Simon’s curls falling against his cheek and their knees barely brushing.

This too, seems to last for hours or maybe it’s just the feeling. It’s endless. Like this is everything and Baz could never ever get enough of it.

The twilight is settling outside the window, while Baz is really thinking that he may just drop his violin and Simon Snow’s whole body pulls him in tighter, and his lips go near Baz’s ear to whisper-

 

“Thank-you, Baz.”

 

And Baz, by the grace of God, is able for a moment, to find his voice. His voice is raspy, and very, very breathless, and he prays that by the grace of God again, Simon won’t notice.

 

“For what?”

 

And Simon’s voice is still strong, how can he be so strong-

 

“For this, for everything.” Simon laughs in the midst of it all, and if Baz’s heart wasn’t already trying to break through his rib cage, it sure was now.

“For you.” He says, and Baz can swear he sees Simon shiver slightly, though the room isn’t cold. And he meets Baz’s eyes, grinning.

 

“Especially the homework help.” He says, and he’s pulling away.

 

And it’s like Baz is going into withdrawal.

 

Simon is grabbing his bags, and he’s waving and he says-

“See you tomorrow.” He laughs, “We didn’t study much history so you’ll have to quiz me.”

 

He swings his backpack over his shoulder and nearly takes himself down with the amount of weight. His smile turns goofier.

 

“It was great.” He says. Then he’s down the stairs and Baz watches him disappear down the street through the window.

 

Baz is hesitant to say that he’d ever actually been there, if not for the pink eraser that sat dead center in the middle of Baz’s comforter.

_I love you._

He didn’t think that he’d ever have the courage to say it.

If it meant putting being in Simon Snow’s arms at risk, if it meant losing that smile, that laugh.

But it still hurt.


End file.
